LIKE  -THAT 


KATE-  LANGLEY-  BOSHER 


[See  page  74 

"  NO     PURITY    OF    PURPOSE    CAN     OVERCOME    THE     TYRANNY 
OF    CONVENTION  " 


PEOPLE 
LIKE  THAT 

A  NOVEL 

BY 

KATE  LANGLEY  BOSHER 

AUTHOR  OF 
MARY  GARY,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 
/ 


NEW   YORK 

GROSSET&  D^J  N  L  A  P 

PUBLISHERS 


Published     by    Arrangement      with     Harper    fie    Brother* 


PEOPLE  LIKE  THAT 

Copyright.  1916,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  April,  1916 


TO 

LUCY    BOSHER    JANNEY 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 


CHAPTER  I 

of  the  advantages  of  being  an  unrequired 
person  of  twenty-six,  with  an  income  suffi- 
cient for  necessities,  is  the  right  of  choice  as  to 
a  home  locality.  I  am  that  sort  of  person,  and, 
having  exercised  said  right,  I  am  now  living  in 
Scarborough  Square. 

To  my  friends  and  relatives  it  is  amazing,  in- 
explicable, and  beyond  understanding  that  I 
should  wish  to  live  here.  I  do  not  try  to  make 
them  understand;  and  therein  lies  grievance 
against  me.  Because  of  my  failure  to  explain 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  a  peculiar  decision 
on  my  part,  I  am  at  present  the  subject  of  heated 
criticism.  It  will  soon  stop.  What  a  person  does 
or  doesn't  do  is  of  little  importance  to  more  than 
three  or  four  people.  By  Christmas  my  foolish- 
ness will  have  ceased  to  cause  comment,  ceased  to 
interest  those  to  whom  it  doesn't  matter  really 
where  or  how  I  live. 

i 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

I  like  living  in  Scarborough  Square  very  much. 
After  many  years  spent  in  the  homes  of  others  I 
am  now  the  head  of  half  a  house,  the  whole  of 
which  is  mine;  and  even  though  it  is  situated  on 
the  last  square  of  respectability  in  a  part  of  the 
town  long  forgotten  by  the  descendants  of  its 
former  residents,  I  am  filled  with  a  sense  of  pro- 
prietorship that  is  warm  and  comforting,  and 
already  I  have  learned  to  love  it — this  nice,  old- 
fashioned  house  in  which  I  live. 

Until  very  recently  Scarborough  Square  was 
only  a  name.  There  had  been  no  reason  to  visit 
it,  and  had  I  ventured  to  it  I  would  have  seen 
little  save  a  tiny  park  bounded  on  four  sides  by 
houses  of  shabby  gentility,  for  the  most  part  de- 
tached, and  of  a  style  of  architecture  long  since 
surrendered  to  more  undesirable  designs.  The 
park  is  but  an  open  space  whose  straggly  trees  and 
stunted  shrubs  and  dusty  grass  add  dejection  to 
the  atmosphere  of  shrinking  respectability  which 
the  neighborhood  still  makes  effort  to  maintain; 
but  that,  too,  I  have  learned  to  love,  for  I  see  in 
it  that  which  I  never  noticed  in  the  large  and 
handsome  parks  up-town. 

As  a  place  of  residence  this  section  of  the  city 
I  am  just  beginning  to  know  has  become  very  in- 
teresting to  me.  No  one  of  importance  lives  near 
it,  and  the  occupants  of  its  houses,  realizing  their 


PEOPLE   LIKE  THAT 

social  submergence  and  pecuniary  impotence, 
have  too  long  existed  in  the  protection  of  obscurity 
to  venture  into  the  publicity  which  civic  attention 
necessitates,  and  on  first  acquaintance  it  is  not 
attractive.  I  agree  with  my  friends  in  that.  I 
did  not  come  here  because  I  thought  it  was  an 
attractive  place  in  which  to  live. 

They  cannot  say,  however,  even  my  most  pro- 
testing friends,  that  I  am  not  living  in  a  perfectly 
proper  neighborhood.  The  front  of  my  house 
faces,  beyond  the  discouraged  little  park,  a  strata 
of  streets  which  unfold  from  lessening  degrees  of 
dreariness  and  dinginess  to  ever-increasing  ex- 
pensiveness  and  unashamed  architectural  ex- 
travaganzas, to  the  summit  of  residential  striving, 
called,  for  impressiveness,  the  Avenue,  but  behind 
it  is  a  section  of  the  city  of  which  I  am  as  ignorant 
as  if  it  were  in  the  depths  of  the  sea  or  the  wilds 
of  primeval  forest.  I  have  traveled  much,  but 
I  do  not  know  the  city  wherein  I  live.  I  know  but 
a  part  of  it,  the  pretty  part. 

There  was  something  Mrs.  Mundy  wanted  to 
say  to  me  to-night,  and  did  not  say.  I  love  the 
dear  soul.  I  could  not  live  here  without  her, 
could  not  learn  what  I  am  learning  without  her 
help  and  sympathy  and  loyalty,  but  at  times  I 
wish  she  were  a  bit  less  fond  of  chatting.  She  is 

3 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

greatly  puzzled.  She,  too,  cannot  understand 
why  I  have  come  to  Scarborough  Square  to  live, 
and  I  am  quite  certain  she  thinks  it  strange  I  do 
not  tell  her.  How  can  I  tell  that  of  which  I 
am  not  sure  myself — that  is,  clearly  and  definitely 
sure? 

I  am  not  trying  to  be  sure.  It  is  enough  that  I 
am  here,  free  to  come  and  go  as  I  choose,  to  plan 
my  day  as  I  wish,  to  have  time  for  the  things  I 
once  had  no  time  for,  and  why  must  there  always 
be  explanations  and  reasons  and  justifications  for 
one's  acts?  The  daily  realization  each  morning, 
on  awaking,  that  the  day  is  mine,  that  there  are 
no  customs  with  which  to  comply,  no  regulations 
to  follow,  no  conventions  to  be  conformed  to,  at 
the  end  of  two  weeks  still  stirs  and  thrills  and 
awes  me  a  little,  and  I  am  constantly  afraid  it  is 
not  true  that  I  am  here  to  stay.  And  then  again 
with  something  of  fear  and  shrinking  and  un- 
certainty I  realize  my  bridges  are  burned  and  I 
must  stay. 

"It's  pleased  you  are  with  your  rooms,  I  hope, 
Miss  Dandridge?"  Hands  on  her  hips,  Mrs. 
Mundy  had  looked  somewhat  anxiously  at  me 
before  going  out.  "If  it's  a  home-looking  place 
you're  after,  you've  got  it,  but  when  you  first 
come  down  to  Scarborough  Square  it  made 
me  feel  queer  inside  to  think  of  your  living  here, 

4 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

really  living.  If  you  think  you  can  be  satis- 
fied—" 

"I  am  sure  I  can  be  satisfied.  Why  not?"  I 
smiled  and,  going  over  to  the  window,  straightened 
the  curtain  which  had  caught  and  twisted  a  fern- 
leaf  growing  in  its  box.  "I  am  a  perfectly  un- 
incumbered  human  being  who — " 

"But  an  unincumbered  woman  ain't  much  of  a 
human  being."  Mrs.  Mundy  dropped  the  after- 
noon paper  she  had  brought  up  and  stooped  to 
get  it.  "I  mean  a  woman  is  made  for  incum- 
brances,  and  if  she  don't  have  any — "  She  hesi- 
tated, and  looked  around  the  room  with  its  simple 
furnishings,  its  firelight  and  lamplight,  its  many 
books  and  few  pictures,  its  rugs  and  desk  and 
tables,  the  gifts  of  other  days,  and  presently  she 
spoke  again.  "Being  you  like  so  to  look  out  the 
windows,  it's  well  this  house  has  two  front  rooms 
opening  into  each  other.  If  it's  comfortable  and 
convenient  that  you  want  to  be,  you're  certainly 
that,  but  comforts  and  conveniences  don't  keep 
you  company  exactly." 

"I  don't  want  company  yet.  You  and  Bettina 
are  all  I  need.  I  haven't  said  I  was  to  live  here  a 
thousand  years,  or  that  I  wouldn't  get  tired  of 
myself  in  less  time,  but  until  I  do — " 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  front-door  bell  and 
Mrs.  Mundy  went  to  answer  it.  The  puzzled 

5 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

look  I  often  saw  in  her  eyes  when  talking  to  me 
still  filled  them,  but  she  said  nothing  more  except 
good  night,  and  when  I  heard  her  footsteps  in  the 
hall  below  I  went  to  the  door  and  locked  it.  This 
new  privacy,  this  sense  of  freedom  from  unesca- 
pable  interruption,  was  still  so  precious,  that 
though  an  unnecessary  precaution,  I  turned  the 
key  that  I  might  feel  perfectly  sure  of  quiet  hours 
ahead,  and  at  my  sigh  of  satisfaction  I  laughed. 

Going  into  my  bedroom,  which  adjoined  my 
sitting-room,  I  hung  in  the  closet  the  coat  I  had 
left  on  a  chair,  put  away  my  hat  and  gloves,  and 
again  looked  around,  as  if  they  were  still  strange — 
the  white  bed  and  bureau,  the  wash-rugs,  the  mus- 
lin curtains,  the  many  contrasts  to  former  furnish- 
ings— and  again  I  sighed  contentedly.  They  were 
mine. 

The  house  I  am  now  living  in  is  indeed  an  old- 
fashioned  one,  but  well  built  and  of  admirable 
design.  The  rooms  are  few — only  eight  in  all — 
and  four  of  them  I  have  taken  for  myself — the 
upper  four.  The  lower  floor  is  occupied  by  Mrs. 
Mundy  and  Bettina,  her  little  granddaughter. 
When  I  first  saw  the  house  its  condition  was  dis- 
couraging. Not  for  some  time  had  it  been  occu- 
pied, and  repairs  of  all  kinds  were  needed.  To  get 
it  in  order  gave  me  strange  joy,  and  the  weeks  in 
which  it  was  being  painted  and  papered  and  beauti- 

6 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

fied  with  modern  necessities  were  of  an  interest  only 
a  person,  a  woman  person,  can  feel  who  has  never 
had  a  home  of  her  own  before.  When  everything 
was  finished,  the  furnishings  in  place,  and  I  estab- 
lished, I  knew,  what  I  no  longer  made  effort  to 
deny  to  myself — that  I  was  doing  a  daring  thing. 
I  was  taking  chances  in  a  venture  I  was  still  afraid 
to  face. 


CHAPTER  II 

L^ITTY  came  to  see  me  yesterday.  Her  mor- 
•*•  *•  tification  at  my  living  in  Scarborough  Square 
is  poignant.  Not  since  she  learned  of  my  doing  so 
has  her  amazement,  her  incredulity,  her  indigna- 
tion and  resentment,  lessened  in  the  least,  but  her 
curiosity  is  great  and  her  affection  sincere,  and 
yesterday  she  yielded  to  both. 

She  was  on  her  wedding  journey  when  I  left 
the  house  in  which  for  many  years  we  had  lived 
together,  and,  knowing  it  would  spoil  her  trip  did 
I  tell  of  what  I  had  done,  I  did  not  tell.  Two  days 
ago  she  got  back,  and  over  the  telephone  I  gave 
her  my  new  address. 

"But  I  can't  understand—  During  most  of 
her  visit  Kitty  was  crying.  She  cries  easily  and 
well.  "I  can't  take  it  in,  can't  even  glimpse  why 
you  want  to  live  in  such  a  horrid  old  place.  It's 
awful!" 

"Oh  no,  it  isn't.  It's  a  very  nice  place.  Look 
how  the  sun  comes  through  those  little  panes  of 
glass  in  those  deep  windows  and  chirps  all  over 

8 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

the  floor.  I  never  knew  before  how  much  com- 
pany sunshine  could  be ;  how  many  different  things 
it  could  do,  until  I  came  to  Scarborough  Square. 
This  is  a  very  interesting  place,  Kitty." 

"It's  fearful!"  Kitty  shuddered.  "The  sun 
shines  much  better  on  the  Avenue,  and  you 
might  as  well  be  dead  as  live  in  this  part  of 
the  town.  When  people  ask  me  where  you  are 
I'm—" 

"Ashamed  to  tell  them?"  I  laughed.  "Don't 
tell  them,  if  the  telling  mortifies  you.  Those  who 
object  to  visiting  me  in  my  new  home  will  soon 
forget  I'm  living.  Those  to  whom  it  does  not 
matter  where  I  live  will  find  where  I  am  without 
asking  you.  I  wouldn't  bother." 

"But  what  must  I  say  when  people  ask  me  why 
you've  come  down  here?  why  you've  made  this 
awful  change  from  living  among  the  best  people  to 
living  among  these — I  don't  know  what  they  are. 
Nobody  knows." 

"They  are  perfectly  good  people."  I  took  a  pin 
out  of  Kitty's  hat  and  tried  the  latter  at  a  different 
angle.  "The  man  on  the  corner  is  named  Crimm. 
He's  a  policeman.  The  girl  next  door  makes  cig- 
arettes, and  her  friend  around  the  corner  works  at 
the  Nottingham  Overall  factory.  The  cigarette- 
girl  has  a  beau  who  walks  home  with  her  every 
evening.  He's  delicate  and  can't  take  a  job  in- 

9 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

doors.  Just  at  present  he's  an  assistant  to  the 
keeper  of  Cherry  Hill  Park." 

Kitty  stared  at  me  as  if  not  sure  she  heard 
aright.  The  tears  in  her  big  blue  eyes  disappeared 
and  into  them  came  incredulity.  "Do  you  know 
them — the  cigarette-girl,  and  the  overall-girl,  and 
the  policeman?"  Her  voice  was  thin  with  dismay 
and  unbelief.  "Do  you  really  know  people  like 
that?" 

"I  do."  I  laughed  in  the  puzzled  and  protesting 
face,  kissed  it.  "To  every  sort  of  people  other 
people  not  of  their  sort  are  'people  like  that.'  Our 
customs  and  characteristics  and  habits  of  thought 
and  manner  of  life  separate  us  into  our  particular 
groups,  but  in  many  ways  all  people  are  dreadfully 
alike,  Kitty.  To  the  little  cigarette-girl  you're  a 
'person  like  that.'  Did  you  ever  wonder  what  she 
thought  of  you?" 

' '  Why  should  I  wonder  ?  It  doesn't  matter  what 
she  thinks.  I  don't  know  her,  never  will  know  her. 
I  can't  understand  why  you  want  to  know  her,  to 
know  people  who — ' 

"I  want  to  know  all  sorts  of  people."  Again  I 
tilted  Kitty's  hat,  held  her  off  so  as  to  get  a  better 
effect.  "You  see,  I've  wondered  sometimes  what 
they  thought  of  us — these  people  who  haven't  had 
our  chance.  Points  of  view  always  interest  me." 

"What  difference  does  it  make  what  they  think? 
10 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

You're  the  queerest  person  I've  ever  known!  You 
aren't  very  religious.  You  never  did  go  to  church 
as  much  as  I  did.  Are  you  going  in  for  slums?" 

"I  am  not.  I  wouldn't  be  a  success  at  slum- 
ming. I'm  not  going  in  for  anything  except — " 

"Except  what?" 

"My  dear  Kitty,"  I  picked  up  the  handkerchief 
she  had  dropped  and  put  it  on  the  table,  "I 
wouldn't  try  to  understand,  if  I  were  you,  why 
people  do  things.  Usually  it's  because  they  have 
to,  or  because  they  want  to,  and  occasionally  there 
are  other  reasons.  I  used  to  wonder,  for  instance, 
why  certain  people  married  each  other.  Often 
now,  as  I  watch  husbands  and  wives  together,  I 
still  wonder  if,  unmarried,  they  would  select  each 
other  again.  I  suppose  you  went  to  the  Bertrands' 
dinner-dance  last  night?" 

"I  went,  but  I  wish  I  hadn't.  Billy  didn't  want 
to  go,  and  we  came  away  as  soon  as  we  could. 
Everybody  asked  about  you.  I  haven't  seen  any 
one  yet  who  doesn't  think  it  very  strange  that 
you  won't  live  with  me.  That  beautiful  little 
Marie  Antoinette  suite  on  the  third  floor  is  all 
fixed  for  you,  and  you  could  use  the  automobiles 
as  much  as  you  choose.  It's  wicked  and  cruel  in 
you  to  do  like  this  and  not  live  with  me.  It 
looks  so — " 

"Peculiar."  I  nodded  in  the  eyes  as  blue  as  a 
ii 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

baby's.  "But  a  person  who  isn't  peculiar  isn't 
much  of  a  person.  You  see,  I  don't  care  for  things 
which  are  already  fixed  for  me.  I  like  to  do  my 
own  fixing.  And  I  don't  want  to  live  in  anybody 
else's  home,  not  even  yours,  though  you  are  dear 
to  want  me.  I  am  grateful,  but  I  prefer  to  live 
here.  My  present  income  would  make  an  undig- 
nified affair  of  life  among  the  friends  of  other 
days.  I'd  feel  continually  as  if  I  were  overboard 
and  holding  on  to  a  slippery  plank.  Down  here 
I'm  independent.  I  have  enough  for  my  needs  and 
something  to  give — .  That's  a  good-looking  hat 
you  have  on.  Did  you  get  it  in  Paris?" 

Kitty  shook  her  head.  "New  York."  Other- 
wise she  ignored  my  question.  Hats  usually  inter- 
ested her.  She  talked  well  concerning  them,  but 
to-day  she  would  not  be  diverted  from  more 
insistent  subjects. 

"It  must  have  cost  a  good  deal  to  fix  up  this 
old  house.  Anywhere  else  it  would  look  very 
well."  Her  eyes  were  missing  no  detail.  "You'd 
make  a  pig-sty  pretty,  but  it  takes  money — " 

"Everything  takes  money.  I  sold  two  or  three 
pieces  of  Aunt  Matilda's  jewelry  for  enough  to 
put  the  house  in  order.  She  expected  me  to  sell 
what  I  did  not  wish  to  keep.  In  her  will  was  a 
note  to  that  effect." 

"She  had  more  jewelry  than  any  human  being 

12 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

I  ever  saw."  Into  Kitty's  face  came  dawning 
understanding.  "It  was  the  only  way  she  could 
leave  you  any  of — " 

"Your  father's  money,"  I  nodded.  "Not  until 
after  her  death  did  I  understand  why  she  used  to 
take  all  of  your  father's  gifts  in  jewelry.  I  know 
now." 

' '  It  was  a  good  investment.  I  wish  she'd  bought 
twice  as  much.  She  had  so  little  else  to  leave  you." 
Kitty  was  looking  at  me  speculatively.  "How  on 
earth  are  you  going  to  live  on  a  thousand  dollars  a 
year?  Our  servants  cost  us  twice  that.  Billy  says 
it's  awful,  but — " 

"It  is  if  you  can't  afford  it.  You  can.  I  believe 
all  people  ought  to  spend  every  dollar  they  can 
afford,  and  not  a  cent  they  can't.  That's  what 
I  do.  Aunt  Matilda  thought  I  was  impractical,  but 
I'm  fearfully  prudent.  I  live  within  my  income 
and  I've  deposited  with  a  trust  company,  so  I 
can't  spend  it,  a  sum  of  money  quite  large  enough 
to  care  for  me  through  a  spell  of  illness  in  the 
greediest  of  hospitals,  if  I  should  be  ill.  And  if 
I  should  die  I'm  prepared  for  all  expenses.  It's  a 
mistake  to  think  I  don't  look  ahead.  I  thought 
once  of  having  a  stone  put  up  in  the  cemetery  so 
as  to  be  sure  I  had  not  forgotten  anything,  but  I 
guess  that  can  wait." 

Kitty,  still  staring  at  me,  got  up.  "I  never 
2  "  13 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

expect  to  understand  you.  Neither  does  father. 
He's  mortified  to  death  about  your  coming  down 
here  to  live.  He  knows  people  are  talking ;  so  do 
I;  and  we  don't  know  what  to  say." 

"Oh,  people  always  talk!  And  don't  say  any- 
thing. No  one  escapes  criticism.  It's  human 
pastime  to  indulge  in  it.  To  prefer  Scarborough 
Square  to  the  Avenue  may  be  queer,  but  at  present 
I  do  prefer  it.  That's  why  I'm  here.  You  can  say 
that  if  you  choose." 

"You've  got  no  business  preferring  it."  Kitty 
snapped  the  buttons  of  her  glove  with  tearful  em- 
phasis. "Mrs.  Jamieson  said  last  night  that  a 
person  with  eyes  and  eyelashes  like  yours  had  no 
right  to  live  as  you  are  living,  with  just  an  old 
woman  to  do  things  for  you.  She  came  down  to 
see  why  you  were  here,  but  you  wouldn't  tell  her. 
She  can't  understand  any  more  than  I  can." 

I  kissed  Kitty  good-by,  but  I  did  not  try  to 
make  her  understand.  I  no  longer  try  to  make 
people  understand  things.  Many  of  them  can't. 
Kitty  is  a  dear  child,  adorably  blue-eyed  and  pink- 
cheeked,  and  possessed  of  an  amount  of  worldly 
wisdom  that  is  always  amazing  and  at  times  dis- 
tressing, but  much  that  interests  me  has,  so  far, 
never  interested  her.  Refusing  to  study,  she  has 
little  education,  but  she  has  traveled  a  good  deal, 
speaks  excellent  French,  dances  perfectly,  dresses 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

admirably,  and  has  charming  manners  when  she 
wishes.  I  love  her  very  much,  but  I  no  longer  feel 
it  is  my  duty  to  live  with  her. 

I  am  not  living  in  Scarborough  Square  because 
I  feel  it  is  my  duty  to  live  here.  Thank  Heaven,  I 
don't  have  to  tell  any  one  why  I  am  here! 


CHAPTER  III 

L^ITTY'S  mother  had  been  dead  only  a  year 
•*•**  when  Aunt  Matilda,  who  had  adopted  me 
several  years  earlier  on  the  death  of  my  parents, 
married  her  father.  I  was  twelve  and  Kitty  eight 
when  the  marriage  took  place,  and  with  canny 
care  I  tried  to  shield  her  from  the  severity  of  Aunt 
Matilda's  system  in  rearing  a  child.  I  had  been 
reared  by  it. 

I  owe  much  to  Aunt  Matilda.  She  sent  me  to 
good  schools,  to  a  good  college;  took  me  with  her 
on  most  of  her  trips  abroad,  and  at  twenty  pre- 
sented me  to  society,  but  she  never  knew  me,  never 
in  the  least  understood  the  hunger  in  my  heart  for 
what  it  was  not  in  her  power  to  give.  I  never  told 
her  there  was  hunger  in  my  heart.  I  rarely  told 
her  of  anything  she  could  not  see  for  herself. 

In  childhood  I  had  learned  the  fixedness  of  her 
ideas,  the  rigidity  of  her  type  of  mind,  the  relent- 
lessness  of  her  will;  and  that  independence  on  my 
part  survived  was  due  to  sturdy  stubbornness,  to 
a  refusal  to  be  dominated,  and  an  incapacity  for 

16 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

subjection.  But  this,  too,  she  failed  to  under- 
stand. 

That  I  would  not  marry  as  she  wished  was  a 
grievous  blow  to  her.  I  had  no  desire  to  marry, 
and  it  was  when  refusing  to  do  so  that  certain 
realizations  came  to  me  sharply,  and  all  the  more 
acutely,  because  I  had  so  long  been  seemingly  in- 
different to  them.  On  the  morning  following  the 
night  in  which  I  had  faced  frankly  undeniable 
facts  I  went  to  Aunt  Matilda's  room  and  told  her 
I  could  no  longer  be  dependent,  told  her  of  my 
purpose  to  earn  my  own  living.  I  was  strong, 
healthy,  well  educated.  There  was  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  do  what  other  women  were  doing. 

As  I  talked  her  amazement  and  indignation 
deepened  into  anger,  and  had  I  been  a  child  I 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  punished  for  my 
impertinence  and  audacity  in  daring  to  desire  to 
go  out  into  the  world  to  earn  what  there  was  no 
necessity  for  my  earning.  Socially,  a  woman  could 
be  autocratic,  I  was  told,  but  in  all  things  else  she 
should  be  dependent  on  the  stronger  sex. 

"But  there  is  no  stronger-sex  person  for  me  to 
be  dependent  upon,  even  were  I  willing  to  de- 
pend," I  said,  and  made  effort  to  keep  back  what 
I  must  not  say  to  her,  but  surely  would  have  said 
to  others.  For  years  I  had  been  the  recipient  of 
her  bounty,  the  object  of  her  care,  and  she  still 

17 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

thought  of  me  as  something  to  be  protected.  That 
I  should  prefer  to  work,  prefer  to  take  my  place  in 
the  world  of  women-workers,  was  beyond  her  grasp. 

"Mr.  Chesmond  understood  when  I  married 
him — it  is  part  of  our  marriage  contract — that  you 
were  to  have  the  same  advantages  as  his  daughter. 
He  has  very  willingly  given  you  these.  If  you 
no  longer  care  to  accept  his  protection,  you  can 
marry.  Opportunities  such  as  come  to  few  girls 
have  come  to  you.  A  home  of  your  own  is  yours 
for  the  taking.  In  my  day — 

' '  But  this  is  not  your  day !"  I  bit  my  lip.  When 
Aunt  Matilda's  face  got  a  certain  shade  of  red  and 
her  breath  became  short  and  quick,  I  was  uneasy. 
The  doctor  had  warned  us  of  the  seriousness  of  her 
condition.  She  was  pitifully  afraid  of  death — it 
was  the  only  thing  she  was  afraid  of — and  death 
might  come  at  any  time.  To  prevent  excitement 
there  must  be  with  her  no  discussion,  and,  as  far 
as  possible,  no  opposition  to  her  will. 

"Your  day  and  mine  are  very  far  apart."  I 
made  effort  to  speak  quietly.  "Women  no  longer 
have  to  be  adjuncts  to  men  because  they  don't 
know  how  to  be  anything  else.  They  can  stand 
up  now  by  themselves.  Conditions  have  forced 
them  to  face  life  much  more — " 

"Face  fiddlesticks!"  Aunt  Matilda's  hands 
made  an  impatient  gesture.  "Women  have  no 

18 


PEOPLE    LIKE, THAT 

business  doing  what  many  of  them  are  doing  to- 
day. They  are  forgetting  the  place  to  which  they 
were  appointed  by  their  Creator.  But  even  if  you 
were  at  liberty  to  carry  out  your  silly  ideas,  what 
could  you  do?  How  could  you  earn  your  living? 
You  play  well,  paint  a  little,  read  books  that  do 
you  no  good,  and  hardly  enough  of  the  new  novels 
to  discuss  them.  All  this  sociological  stuff,  those 
scientific  things  I  see  in  your  room,  are  absurd  for 
a  woman  to  bother  with.  Men  dislike  women  who 
think  too  much  and  know  too  much.  You  are 
well  educated  and  clever  enough,  but  what  could 
you  do  if  you  were  suddenly  left  without  means  of 
support?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  could  do.  It's  what  I 
want  to  find  out.  Half  of  my  life  has  been  spent 
in  school  and  college,  and  during  these  years  I  was 
taught  little  that  would  be  of  practical  service  in 
case  of  need.  I'd  like  to  use  part  of  my  time  trying 
to  make  educators  understand  they  don't  educate. 
For  cultural  purposes,  for  acquiring  knowledge  of 
facts,  their  system  may  be  admirable,  but  for  the 
pursuit  of  a  happy  livelihood — 

I  stopped.  Aunt  Matilda  was  looking  at  me  as 
if  I  were  suffering  from  an  attack  of  some  kind. 
Marriage  to  her  was  the  divinely  arranged  destiny 
for  a  woman,  and  she  had  neither  patience  nor 
sympathy  with  my  refusal  to  accept  the  oppor- 

19 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

tunity  that  was  mine  to  fulfil  the  destiny  of  my 
sex  and  at  the  same  time  become  the  wife  of  the 
man  she  had  long  wished  me  to  marry.  The  power 
of  money  was  dear  to  her.  She  understood  it  well, 
and  my  failure  to  appreciate  it  properly  was  pecu- 
liarly exasperating  to  her.  Discussion  was  useless. 
It  never  got  farther  than  where  it  started.  If  I 
said  that  which  I  wanted  much  to  say,  it  would 
merely  mean  hearing  again  what  I  did  not  want 
to  hear.  Concerning  the  pursuit  of  a  happy  live- 
lihood we  were  not  apt  to  agree. 

For  a  half -minute  longer  I  hesitated.  Should  I 
make  the  issue  now  or  wait  until  there  had  been 
time  for  her  to  realize  I  meant  what  I  said?  Be- 
fore I  could  speak  she  did  that  which  I  had  never 
seen  her  do  before.  She  burst  into  tears. 

"You  must  never  mention  such  a  thing  as  this 
again."  Her  words  came  stumblingly  and  her 
usually  firm  and  strong  hands  trembled  badly. 
"With  my  health  in  its  present  condition  I  couldn't 
get  on  without  you.  You  are  all  I  have  to  really 
love,  and  I  need  you.  Don't  you  see  what  you 
have  done?  You  have  made  me  ill.  III!" 

She  was  strangely  upset  and  in  her  eyes  was  a 
confused  and  frightened  look  that  was  new  to 
them,  and  quickly  I  went  toward  her,  but  she 
motioned  me  away. 

"Give  me  my  medicine,  and  don't  ever  speak  of 
20 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

such  a  thing  again — such  a  thing  as  you  have  just 
spoken  of!  You  have  always  been  beyond  my 
comprehension. ' ' 

She  swallowed  the  medicine  I  brought  her  in 
nervous  gulps,  the  tears  running  down  her  face  as 
they  might  have  done  down  a  child's,  but  she 
would  not  let  me  do  anything  for  her,  insisting 
only  that  she  wanted  to  be  quiet.  Seeing  it  was 
best  to  leave  her,  I  went  to  my  room  and  locked 
the  door,  and  for  hours  I  fought  the  hardest  fight 
of  my  life. 

The  one  weapon  she  knew  she  could  use  effect- 
ively, she  had  used.  If  she  needed  me  I  could  not 
leave  her,  but  her  complete  self-reliance  made  it 
difficult  to  feel  that  any  one  was  necessary  to  her. 
I  was  indignant  at  the  way  she  had  treated  me. 
I  was  not  a  child  to  be  disposed  of,  and  yet  of  my 
future  she  was  disposing  as  though  it  were  a  thing 
that  could  be  tied  to  a  string,  and  untied  at  will. 
Were  she  well  and  strong,  I  would  take  matters  in 
my  own  hands  and  make  the  break.  Surely  I 
could  do  something!  I  had  no  earning  capacity, 
but  other  women  had  made  their  way,  and  I  could 
make  mine.  If  she  were  perfectly  well — 

But  she  was  not  well.  Through  those  first  hours, 
and  through  most  of  the  hours  of  the  night  that 
followed,  the  knowledge  of  the  insidious  disease 
that  was  hers  was  the  high,  hard  wall  against 

21 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

which  I  struck  at  every  turn  of  thought,  at  every 
possibility  at  which  I  grasped,  and  in  the  dawn  of 
a  new  day  I  knew  I  must  not  go  away. 

It  was  not  easy  to  surrender.  Always  my  two 
selves  are  fighting  and  I  wanted  much  to  know 
more  of  life  than  I  could  know  in  the  costly  shelter, 
controlled  by  custom  and  convention,  wherein  I 
lived.  I  had  long  been  looking  through  stained 
glass.  I  was  restless  to  get  out  and  see  clearly,  to 
know  all  sorts  of  people,  all  conditions  of  life,  and 
the  chance  had  seemed  within  my  grasp — and  now 
it  must  be  given  up. 

There  are  times  when  I  am  heedless  of  results, 
when  I  am  daring  and  audacious  and  count  no 
cost,  but  that  is  only  where  I  alone  am  concerned. 
When  it  comes  to  making  decisions  which  affect 
others  I  am  a  coward.  I  lack  the  courage  to  have 
my  own  way  at  the  expense  of  some  one  else ;  and 
though  through  the  night  I  protested  stormily,  if 
inwardly,  that  I  was  not  meant  for  gilded  cages, 
but  for  contact,  for  encounter,  I  knew  I  should 
yield  in  the  end. 

The  next  day  I  told  her  I  would  not  go  away. 
She  said  nothing  save  she  hardly  thought  I  had 
entirely  lost  my  senses,  but  the  thing  I  am  glad- 
dest to  remember  since  her  death  is  the  look  that 
came  into  her  eyes  when  I  told  her.  For  two  years 
longer  I  lived  with  her,  years  for  her  of  practical 

22 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

invalidism,  and  for  me  of  opportunity  to  do  for 
her  what  she  had  never  permitted  me  to  do  be- 
fore. Two  weeks  after  Kitty's  marriage  she  died 
suddenly,  and  at  times  I  still  shiver  with  the  cold 
clamminess  that  came  over  me  as  I  stood  by  her 
in  her  last  sleep  and  realized  my  aloneness  in  the 
world.  My  parents  had  died  in  my  early  child- 
hood. I  had  no  brothers  or  sisters,  no  near  rela- 
tives, save  an  uncle  who  lived  abroad  and  some 
cousins  here  in  town.  Mr.  Chesmond  was  very 
kind,  but  I  could  not  continue  to  accept  what  he 
had  willingly  given  his  wife's  adopted  child,  and 
Kitty  no  longer  needed  me.  It  is  a  fearful  feeling, 
this  sense  of  belonging  to  no  one,  of  having  no  one 
belonging  to  you.  Lest  it  overwhelm  me,  I  went 
at  once  to  work  upon  the  house  in  Scarborough 
Square  left  me  by  Aunt  Matilda,  together  with  an 
annuity  of  a  thousand  dollars.  Already  it  means 
much  to  me.  For  a  while,  at  least,  it  is  a  haven, 
a  shelter,  a  home.  What  it  may  prove — 

I  have  been  thinking  much  to-day  of  Aunt 
Matilda.  Perhaps  it  is  because  Selwyn  was  here 
last  night.  She  was  afraid  I  would  marry  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  DID  not  tell  Selwyn  I  was  coming  to  Scar- 
borough Square  to  live.  I  told  no  one.  The 
day  after  I  reached  here  I  sent  him  a  note,  giving 
him  my  new  address. 

His  answer  was  short  and  stiff.  He  was  leaving 
town  on  a  business  trip  and  would  see  me  on  his 
return,  he  wrote,  and  as  I  read  what  was  not 
written  between  what  was  I  was  glad  he  was 
going  away.  It  would  give  him  time  to  cool  off. 
I  am  beyond  Selwyn's  comprehension.  We  should 
not  be  friends,  we  are  so  apart  in  many  matters. 
But  compatible  people  must  find  life  dull.  Selwyn 
and  I  are  never  dull. 

When  he  first  called  I  was  out,  and  last  night  he 
called  again.  As  Mrs.  Mundy,  with  his  coat  and 
hat,  closed  the  door  behind  her,  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

' '  Well  ?"  He  looked  at  me,  but  in  his  eyes  was  no 
smiling. 

"Well?"  I  shook  hands  and  smiled. 

For  a  half -moment  we  said  nothing,  and  frown- 
24 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

ingly  he  turned  away.  Always  he  radiated  the 
security  that  comes  of  fixed  position,  a  past  with- 
out challenge,  a  future  provided  for;  but  to- 
night I  was  conscious  only  of  the  quiet  excellence 
of  his  clothes,  his  physical  well-being,  the  unes- 
capableness  of  his  eyes,  and  the  cut  of  his  chin. 
He  is  a  most  determined  person.  So  am  I — which 
perhaps  accounts  for  our  rather  stormy  friendship. 

"Don't  you  think  I  have  a  very  nice  home?" 
I  took  my  seat  in  a  corner  of  the  big  chintz-covered 
sofa  in  front  of  the  fire  and  close  to  the  long  table 
with  its  lighted  lamp  and  books  and  magazines, 
and  motioned  him  to  sit  down.  "I'm  entirely 
fixed.  I  hope  you  like  this  room.  I  love  it.  I've 
never  had  one  of  my  very  own  before." 

"It's  very  pretty." 

Selwyn  took  his  seat  without  looking  around. 
He  did  not  know  whether  it  was  pretty  or  not.  He 
was  not  at  all  interested  in  the  room. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  me  with  eyes  nar- 
rowed and  his  forehead  ridged  in  tiny,  perpendic- 
ular folds.  Presently  he  leaned  forward,  his  hands 
between  his  knees  and  fingers  interlocked. 

"How  long  do  you  propose  to  stay  down  here?" 
he  asked. 

"I  really  do  not  know.  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  congratulate  me  upon  living  the  life  I 
want  to  live." 

25 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"I  do.  Until  you  get  this  thing  out  of  your 
system — " 

"What  thing?"  I,  too,  leaned  forward.  The 
tone  of  his  voice  made  something  in  me  flare. 
"What  thing?"  I  repeated. 

Selwyn's  shoulders  shrugged  slightly.  He  sat 
up,  then  leaned  back,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
' '  Why  discuss  it  ?  You've  long  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing of  this  sort.  Until  it  was  done  you  would 
never  be  content.  What  you  want  to  do,  I«doubt 
if  you  know  yourself.  Are  you  slumming?  Up- 
lifting?" 

"I  am  not.  I'm  neither  a  slummer  nor  an  up- 
lifter.  A  slummer  helps.  I'm  just  looking  on." 
I  threw  the  cushion  behind  me  to  the  other  end  of 
the  sofa.  "I  thought  it  might  be  interesting  to 
see  for  myself  some  of  the  causes  which  produce 
conditions.  I've  read  a  good  deal,  but  one  doesn't 
exactly  sense  things  by  reading.  I  want  to  see." 

"And  after  you  see?"  Selwyn  made  an  impa- 
tient movement  with  his  hand.  "A  thousand 
years  from  now  humanity  may  get  results  from 
scientific  management  in  social  organization,  but 
most  of  your  present-day  methods  are  about  as 
practical  as  trying  to  empty  the  ocean  with  a  tea- 
spoon or  to  pick  a  posy  out  of  swamp  grass." 

"What  do  you  know  of  present-day  methods?" 

"Very  little.  Beating  the  air  doesn't  interest 
26 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

me.  Most  people  seem  to  forget  the  processes  of 
nature;  seem  to  imagine  that  certain  things  can 
be  brought  to  pass  quickly  which  can  only  be  ac- 
complished slowly.  From  the  first  struggle  of  the 
human  race  to  stand  upright,  to  articulate,  to  find 
food,  to  strike  fire,  to  paddle  in  water,  to  wear  cov- 
ering, to  forage,  explore —  What  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing."  I  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa,  my  hands,  palms  upward,  in  my  lap,  my 
eyes  on  them  that  he  might  not  see  their  smiling. 
"I  was  just  wondering  what  that  had  to  do  with 
certain  present-day  conditions,  certain  injustices 
and  inequalities,  certain — " 

"It  explains  them  to  some  extent.  From  the 
earliest  days  of  dawning  thought,  from  the  first 
efforts  at  self-expression,  humanity  has  grouped 
itself  not  only  into  families,  tribes,  communities, 
nations,  or  what  you  will,  but  in  each  of  these 
divisions  there  have  ever  been  subdivisions.  Ig- 
norance and  knowledge,  strength  and  weakness, 
power  and  incapacity,  find  their  level,  rise  or  fall 
according  to  their  proper  place.  If  you  have  any 
little  dreams  of  making  all  human  beings  after  one 
pattern — " 

"I  haven't.  It  would  be  as  uninteresting  as  im- 
possible. But  it  is  queer — " 

"What  is  queer?"  Selwyn  stooped  forward  and 
broke  a  lump  of  coal  from  which  sprang  blazing 

27 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

reds  and  curling  blues  of  flame.    "Why  did  you 
stop?" 

"I  was  thinking  it  was  queer  you  should  know 
so  much  of  the  history  of  the  human  race  and  so 
little  of  its  life  to-day.  As  a  shrugger  you  stand 
off." 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven  don't  let's  get  on  that !" 

With  swift  movement  he  took  a  cigar  from  one 
pocket,  a  match-case  from  another.  "May  I 
smoke?"  he  asked,  irritably,  and  as  I  nodded  he 
struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  the  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
then  threw  it  in  the  fire.  Presently  he  looked  at 
me. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  coming  here 
— for  a  while?" 

"It  would  have  meant  more  argument.  You 
would  not  have  approved." 

"I  most  assuredly  would  not.  But  that  would 
have  made  no  difference.  My  disapproval  would 
not  have  prevented." 

"No.  I  should  have  come,  of  course.  But  I 
was  tired,  and  useless  discussion  does  no  good. 
We  would  have  said  again  the  same  old  things 
we've  said  so  often,  and  I  didn't  want  to  say  them 
or  hear  them.  One  of  the  reasons  why  I  came 
down  here  was  to  talk  with  people  who  weren't 
born  with  made-up  minds,  and  who  don't  have 
high  walls  around  their  homes." 

28 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"There  are  times  when  I  would  like  to  put  them 
around  you!  If  you  were  mine  I'd  do  it." 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  You  know  perfectly  well 
what  I  would  do  with  walls.  That  is  the  kind  you 
think  should  be  around  a  woman.  But  we  won't 
get  on  that,  either.  Were  you  ever  in  Scar- 
borough Square  before?" 

Selwyn  nodded  and  looked,  not  at  me,  but  at 
the  spirals  of  smoke  from  his  cigar.  "My  grand- 
father used  to  live  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Square,  and  as  a  kid  I  was  brought  occasionally  to 
see  him.  I  barely  remember  him.  He  died  thirty 
years  ago." 

"It's  difficult  to  imagine  this  was  once  the  fash- 
ionable part  of  the  city,  and  that  gorgeous  parties 
and  balls — "  I  sat  upright  and  laughed.  "I 
went  to  a  party  last  night.  It  was  a  wonderful 
party." 

"You  did  what?" 

Selwyil'o  cigar  was  held  suspended  on  its  way  to 
his  lips.  "Whose  party?  Where  was  it?" 

"Two  doors  from  here.  The  girl  who  gave  it, 
or  rather,  to  whom  it  was  given,  is  named  Bryce — 
Evelyn  Bryce.  She  is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Mundy's 
and  is  a  printer.  I  never  knew  a  girl  printer  until 
I  came  down  here." 

Selwyn's  look  of  amazed  disapprobation  had 
its  usual  effect.  I  hadn't  intended  to  men- 
3  29 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

tion  the  party,  and  instantly  I  went  into  its  de- 
tails. 

"All  kinds  of  people  were  at  it  and  every  woman 
had  on  a  dress  which  entirely  covered  her.  When 
I  was  a  child  I  adored  a  person  named  Wyman, 
who  used  to  give  performances  in  which  all  sorts 
of  unexpected  things  happened.  Last  night  was  a 
sort  of  Wyman  night." 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  going  to  parties." 
Selwyn's  tone  was  curt. 

"I  am  not — to  your  sort."  My  face  flushed. 
"I  said  this  girl  was  a  printer.  I  should  have  said 
she  used  to  be.  Two  years  ago  she  was  caught  in 
some  machinery  at  the  place  where  she  worked 
and  has  never  been  able  to  stand  up  since.  On 
her  birthday  her  friends  give  her  a  party  that  she 
may  have  a  bit  of  brightness.  I  went  over  to  play 
that  they  might  dance.  She  is  fond  of  music  and 
an  old  piano  has  recently  been  given  her  by — by 
some  one  interested  in  her." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  throwing 
his  cigar  in  the  fire,  Selwyn  got  up  and  stood 
looking  down  at  me.  In  his  eyes  was  strange 
worry  and  unrest. 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  He  bit  his  lips.  "I've 
been  pretty  ragged  of  late  and  I'm  always  thought- 
less. For  two  weeks  I've  seen  no  one — that  is, 
no  friend  of  yours  or  mine  who  hasn't  asked  me 

30 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

why  you  have  done  so  inexplicable  a  thing  as  to 
leave  everybody  you  know  and  go  into  a  part  of 
the  town  where  you  know  nobody  and  where — 

"It's  because  I  want  to  know  all  sorts  of  people." 
Something  in  Selwyn's  face  stopped  me,  and,  get- 
ting up  from  the  sofa,  I  went  over  to  the  window 
and  raised  it  slightly.  My  heart  was  pounding. 
I  could  laugh  away  the  questions  of  others  and 
ignore  their  comments,  but  with  Selwyn  this 
would  be  impossible.  An  overwhelming  sense  of 
distance  and  separation  came  over  me  demoraliz- 
ingly as  I  pretended  to  rearrange  the  curtain,  and 
for  a  moment  words  would  not  come. 

I  knew,  of  course,  that  Selwyn  had  neither 
patience  nor  sympathy  with  my  desire  to  know 
more  of  life  than  I  could  learn  in  the  particular 
world  into  which  I  had  been  born,  but  the  keener 
realization  to-night  made  between  us  a  wide  and 
separating  gulf,  and  I  felt  suddenly  alone  and  un- 
certain, and  dispirited  and  afraid. 

In  our  love  of  books,  of  digging  deep  into  cer- 
tain subjects,  of  historic  questing  and  speculative 
discussions  we  are  closely  sympathetic,  but  in 
many  viewpoints  we  are  as  apart  as  the  poles. 
Perhaps  we  will  always  be. 

Selwyn  by  heritage  and  training  and  natural 
inclination  is  conventional  and  conservative.  I 
am  not.  To  walk  in  beaten  tracks  is  not  easy  for 

31 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

me.  I  want  to  explore  for  myself.  He  thinks  a 
woman  has  no  business  in  by-paths.  Our  oppos- 
ing beliefs  do  not  make  for  placid  friendship. 

It  is  Selwyn's  indifference  to  life,  to  its  problems 
and  struggles  and  many-sidedness,  that  makes  me 
at  times  impatient  with  him  beyond  restraint.  In 
his  profession  he  is  successful.  His  ambition  makes 
him  work,  but  a  weariness  of  things,  of  the  un- 
worthwhileness  of  human  effort,  the  futility  of 
striving,  the  emptiness  of  achievement,  possesses 
him  frequently,  and  in  his  dark  days  he  pays  the 
penalty  of  his  points  of  view.  If  only  he  could  see, 
could  understand — . 

I  turned  from  the  window  and  again  sat  down 
in  my  corner  of  the  sofa  and  motioned  him  to  take 
his  seat. 

"Don't  let's  argue  to-night.  I'm  pretty  tired 
and  argument  would  do  no  good.  We'd  just  say 
things  we  shouldn't.  You  said  just  now  you 
doubted  if  you  knew  why  I  was  here.  I  may  not 
be  sure  of  all  my  reasons,  but  one  of  them  is,  I 
wanted  to  get  away  from — there. ' '  My  hand  made 
motion  in  a  vague  direction  intended  for  my  for- 
mer neighborhood. 

"Do  you  find  this  section  of  the  city  a  satisfac- 
tory change?"  Selwyn's  tone  was  ironic.  He  looked 
for  a  moment  into  the  eyes  I  raised  to  his,  then 
turned  away  and,  hands  in  his  pockets,  began  to 

32 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

walk  up  and  down  the  room.  When  he  spoke 
again  his  voice  had  changed. 

"Don't  mind  anything  I  say  to-night.  I 
shouldn't  have  come.  I'm  a  bit  raw  yet  that  you 
should  have  done  this  without  telling  me.  You 
have  a  right  to  do  as  you  choose,  of  course,  only — . 
Besides  getting  away  from  your  old  life — were 
there  other  reasons?" 

"Not  very  definite  ones."  Into  my  face  came 
surge  of  color,  and,  turning,  I  cut  off  the  light  in 
the  lamp  behind  me.  "When  one  is  in  a  parade 
one  can't  see  what  it  looks  like,  very  often  doesn't 
understand  where  it  is  going.  I  want  to  see  the 
one  I  was  in,  see  from  the  sidewalk  the  kind  of 
human  beings  who  are  in  it,  and  what  they  are 
doing  with  their  time  and  energies  and  oppor- 
tunities and  knowledge  and  preparedness  and — 
oh,  with  all  the  things  that  make  their  position  in 
life  a  more  responsible  one  than — than  the  people's 
down  here.". 

"Was  it  necessary  to  come  to  Scarborough 
Square  to  watch — your  parade?  One  can  stand 
off  anywhere." 

"But  I  don't  want  just  to  stand  off.  I  want  to 
see  with  the  eyes  of  the  people  who  look  at  us,  the 
people  who  don't  approve  of  us,  though  they  envy 
us.  We're  so  certain  they're  a  hard  lot  to  deal 
with,  to  do  for,  to  make  anything  of — these  people 

33 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

we  don't  know  save  from  charity  contact,  perhaps, 
— that  I've  sometimes  wondered  if  they  ever  de- 
spair of  us,  think  we,  too,  are  pretty  hopeless  and 
hard  to — to  wake  up." 

"And  you  imagine  the  opinions  and  conclusions 
of  uneducated,  untrained,  unthinking  people  will 
give  you  light  concerning  the  valuation  of  your 
class?  It  matters  little  what  they  think.  They 
don't  think!" 

"Do  you  know  many  of  these  people  of  whose 
mental  machinery  you  are  so  sure?"  I  smiled  in 
the  eyes  which  would  not  smile  into  mine.  ' '  Know 
them  personally,  I  mean?" 

"I  do  not."  Selwyn's  tone  was  irritable.  "My 
business  dealings  with  them  have  not  inspired  de- 
sire for  a  closer  acquaintance.  To  get  as  much 
money  as  possible  from  the  men  who  employ  them 
and  give  in  return  as  little  work  as  they  can,  is  the 
creed  of  most  of  them.  You  can  do  nothing  with 
people  like  that.  I  know  them  better  than  you 
will  ever  know  them." 

"As  a  corporation  attorney,  yes.  As  a  division 
of  the  human  race,  as  working  people,  you  know 
them.  As  beings  much  more  like  yourself  than 
you  imagine,  you  don't." 

Selwyn  again  stopped.  "You'd  hardly  expect 
me  to  find  them  congenial — the  beings  you  refer 
to." 

34 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"I  would  not."  I  laughed.  "They  are  gener- 
ations removed  from  you  in  education  and  culture, 
in  many  of  the  things  essential  to  you,  but  some 
of  them  see  more  clearly  than  you.  Both  need  to 
understand  you  owe  each  other  something.  And 
how  are  you  going  to  find  out  what  it  is,  see  from 
each  other's  point  of  view,  unless  you  know  each 
other  better?  Unless — " 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  get  rid  of  such  non- 
sense !  That  particular  kind  of  sentiment  has  gone 
to  seed.  Every  sane  man  recognizes  certain  obli- 
gations to  his  -fellow-man,  every  normal  one  tries 
to  pay  them,  but  all  this  rot  about  bringing  better 
relations  to  pass  between  masters  and  men  through 
familiarity,  through  putting  people  in  places  they 
are  not  fitted  to  fill,  is  idle  dreaming  based  on  ig- 
norance of  human  nature.  To  give  a  man  what  he 
doesn't  earn  is  to  do  him  an  injury.  Most  men 
win  the  rewards  they  are  entitled  to.  You're  a 
visionist.  You  always  have  been — " 

1 '  And  am  always  going  to  be !  Life  would  hardly 
be  endurable  were  it  not  for  dreaming,  hoping,  be- 
lieving. I  could  stand  any  loss  better  than  that 
of  my  faith  in  humankind."  I  sat  upright,  my 
hands  locked  in  my  lap.  "I'm  not  here  to  do 
things  for  the  people  you  have  so  little  patience 
with.  I  told  you  I  wanted  to  see  what  sort  of 
people  we  are.  You're  perfectly  certain  those  who 

35 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

live  in  Scarborough  Squares  don't  make  a  success 
of  life.  Do  you  think  we  do?" 

Again  Selwyn  stopped,  stared  at  me,  but  before 
he  could  answer  a  queer,  curdling,  smothered  sound 
reached  us  faintly  from  the  street  below.  A  cry 
low,  yet  clear  and  anguished,  followed.  Then  a 
fall  and  hurrying  footsteps,  and  then  silence. 
Selwyn  sprang  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 

"My  God!"  he  said.  His  face  was  white.  "What 
was  that?" 


CHAPTER  V 

I  WAS  out  of  the  door  before  Selwyn  had  left 
the  window.    Quickly  he  followed  me,  however, 
and  on  the  front  porch,  where  Mrs.  Mundy  was 
already  standing,  we  stood  for  a   half-moment, 
looking  up  and  down  the  street. 

The  small  arc  of  light  made  by  the  corner  gas- 
lamp  lessened  but  little  the  darkness  of  the  seem- 
ingly deserted  street,  and  for  a  while  we  could  dis- 
tinguish nothing  save  the  shadows  cast  by  the 
gaunt  trees  of  the  Square.  Then  I  saw  Selwyn 
start. 

"Go  inside."  He  was  his  steady  self  again. 
"  It  is  too  cold  out  here.  I  think  some  one  has  been 
hurt.  Go  in." 

I  ran  in  Mrs.  Mundy's  room  and  to  her  ward- 
robe. Getting  a  coat  and  an  old  cape,  I  threw  the 
latter  over  my  shoulders,  and,  coming  back  to  the 
porch,  went  down  its  steps  and  across  the  street  to 
where  Mrs.  Mundy  and  Selwyn  were  bending  over 
a  young  woman  who  stirred  as  they  came  up. 

' '  Put  this  on. "  I  threw  the  coat  to  Mrs.  Mundy. 
"Who  is  it?" 

37 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"I  don't  know."  Mrs.  Mundy  knelt  on  the 
ground.  "Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked.  "There— 
that's  better."  With  skilful  movement  she 
helped  the  girl,  who  seemed  dazed,  to  steady  her- 
self. As  the  latter  sat  up  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
face  and  brushed  back  her  hair. 

"Where  am  I?  Has  he  gone?"  Her  face  was 
dropped  in  her  hands.  "If  he  just  would  kill  me 
and  end  it — end  it!" 

"Who  hurt  you?"  Selwyn's  voice  was  the  quiet 
one  that  was  ever  his  when  something  was  to  be 
done,  and,  leaning  over  her,  he  took  the  girl  by 
the  arm  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  "Can  you  tell 
what  has  happened?"  He  looked  at  Mrs.  Mundy. 
"It's  too  cold  out  here  for  her  to  stand — she's 
pretty  faint  still." 

"Bring  her  over  to  me."  Mrs.  Mundy  put  her 
coat  around  the  shivering  girl,  and,  slipping  her 
hand  through  one  arm,  motioned  Selwyn  to  take 
hold  of  the  other.  "Run  ahead,"  she  nodded  to 
me,  "and  fix  up  a  dose  of  that  aromatic  spirits  of 
ammonia  what's  on  the  second  shelf  of  the  closet 
in  my  bedroom.  And  pull  the  couch  up  to  the 
fire." 

Dazedly,  and  dragging  her  feet  as  if  they  were 
powerless  to  move,  the  girl  entered  the  warm  and 
cheerful  room,  but  at  her  entrance  understanding 
seemed  to  give  her  strength.  With  a  shuddering, 

38 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

shivering,  indrawing  breath  she  drew  back  and 
leaned  against  the  door-frame. 

"I  must  go.  I — I  can't  come  in  there.  I'm 
better  now.  I  must  go." 

"You  can't  go."  Selwyn's  voice  was  decisive. 
"You'll  be  all  right  presently,  but  you'll  have  to — 
to  rest,  first."  Firmly  she  was  led  to  the  couch 
and  pushed  upon  it.  Taking  the  medicine  from 
my  hands,  he  held  it  to  her  lips.  "Take  this." 

Hesitating,  partly  defiant,  partly  afraid,  the  girl 
raised  her  eyes  to  his.  Then,  with  hand  that 
shook  badly,  she  took  the  glass  and  drank  part  of 
its  contents,  the  rest  was  spilled  in  her  lap. 

"If  it  were  prussic  acid  I'd  be  glad  to  drink  it." 
The  voice  was  bitter,  and  again  the  eyes,  pale  yet 
burning,  were  raised  to  his,  and  in  them  was 
what  seemed  frightened  but  guarded  recognition. 
Quickly  she  dropped  them  and  glanced  around  the 
room,  as  though  looking  for  escape,  and  again  her 
hands  made  convulsive  pressure,  again  she  started 
to  get  up. 

"I  must  go.  I  tell  you,  I  must.  I — I  can't 
stay  here." 

"Very  well."  Mrs.  Mundy  looked  toward  Sel- 
wyn  and  away  from  me.  "When  you're  steady 
you  can  go.  Mr.  Thome  will  telephone  for  a  cab 
and  I  will  take  you — home." 

"Oh  no!"  The  girl's  face  became  the  pallor 
39 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

that  frightens,  and  on  either  side  of  her  a  hand  was 
dug  in  the  couch  on  which  she  was  sitting.  "I'm 
all  right  now.  I  don't  want  a  cab.  I  just  want  to 
go,  and  by  myself.  Please  let  me  go!" 

The  last  words  were  lost  in  a  sob,  and  coming 
close  to  her  I  sat  beside  her,  and,  putting  my  hand 
on  her  face,  turned  it  slightly  that  I  might  better 
see  the  big,  black  bruise  on  her  forehead,  partly 
hidden  by  the  loose,  dark  curls  which  fell  across  it. 
Her  hair  was  short  and  thick  and  parted  on  the 
side,  giving  her  a  youthful,  boyish  look  that  was 
in  odd  contrast  to  the  sudden  terror  in  her  eyes, 
and  for  the  first  time  I  saw  how  slight  and  frail 
she  was,  saw  that  about  her  which  baffled  and  puz- 
zled me,  and  which  I  could  not  analyze.  She  wore 
no  hat,  and  the  red  scarf  around  her  neck  was  the 
only  touch  of  color  in  her  otherwise  dark  dress. 
The  lips  of  her  large,  sweet,  sensuous  mouth  were 
as  colorless  as  her  face. 

"You  have  been  hurt."  I  put  my  hand  on  her 
trembling  ones.  "Did  some  one  strike  you  or  did 
you  fall?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  drew  her  hands  away. 

"I  wasn't  hurt.  I — I  slipped  and  fell  and 
struck  my  head  on  the  pavement.  Don't  let  any- 
body telephone.  I  can  go  alone.  Please — please 
let  me  go!  I  must  go!  I  can't  stay  here." 

"But  you  mustn't  go  alone."  I  turned  to  Sel- 
40 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

wyn.  "Mr.  Thorne  will  go  with  you.  Do  you 
live  far  from  here?" 

"Not  very.  It's  close  enough  for  me  to  go  by 
myself.  He  mustn't  go  with  me."  The  words 
came  stumblingly,  and  again  I  saw  the  quick, 
frightened  look  she  gave  Selwyn,  a  look  in  which 
was  indecision  and  appeal,  as  well  as  fear,  and  I 
saw,  too,  that  his  face  flushed  as  he  turned  away. 

With  quick  movement  the  girl  got  up.  From 
her  throat  came  a  sound  hysterical  and  choking, 
and,  putting  her  hand  to  it,  she  looked  first  at  me 
and  then  at  Mrs.  Mundy,  but  at  Selwyn  she  did 
not  look  again.  "I'm  going.  Thank  you  for  let- 
ting me  come  in."  Blindly  she  staggered  to  the 
door,  her  hands  outstretched  as  if  to  feel  what  she 
could  not  see.  At  it  she  turned  and  in  her  face 
was  that  which  keeps  me  awake  at  night,  which 
haunts  and  hurts  and  seems  to  be  crying  to  me 
to  do  something  which  I  know  not  how  to  do. 

"You  poor  child!"  I  started  toward  her.   "You 

must  not  go  alone."     But  before  I  could  reach  her 

she  fell  in  a  heap  at  the  door,  and  as  one  dead  she 

lay  limp  and  white  and  piteously  pretty  on  the 

'floor. 


CHAPTER  VI 

T  DON'T  understand  Mrs.  Mundy.  She  acts  so 
*  queerly  about  the  girl  we  found  on  the  street 
last  night.  She  put  her  to  bed,  after  she  had  re- 
covered from  her  fainting  spell,  on  a  cot  in  the 
room  next  to  her  own,  but  this  morning  she  told 
me  the  girl  had  gone,  and  would  tell  me  nothing 
else. 

When  Selwyn,  who  had  picked  her  up  and  laid 
her  on  the  couch,  asked  if  he  should  not  get  a 
doctor,  Mrs.  Mundy  had  said  no,  and  said  it  so 
positively  that  he  offered  to  do  nothing  else. 
And  then  she  thanked  him  and  told  him  good 
night  in  such  a  way  he  understood  it  was  best  he 
should  go. 

At  the  front  door  he  called  me.  With  his  back 
to  it  he  held  out  his  hands,  took  mine  in  his, 
crushed  them  in  clasp  so  close  they  hurt. 

' '  Danny, ' '  he  said,  ' '  why  do  you  torment  me  so  ? 
You  don't  know  what  you're  doing,  living  where 
such  things  are  possible  as  have  taken  place  to- 
night; where  any  time  you  may  be — " 

42 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

His  voice  broke,  and  in  amazement  I  looked  at 
him.  Horror  and  fear  were  in  his  face. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  so  awful  a  thing  to  see  a 
poor  little  creature  who  has  been  hurt  and  needs 
help?"  I  drew  my  hands  away.  "You  talk  as  if 
I  were  a  child,  Selwyn." 

"You  are  a  child  in  your  knowledge  of — of  cer- 
tain phases  of  life.  If  I  could  only  marry  you  to- 
morrow and  take  you  away  from  here  you  should 
never  know  them!" 

"Well,  you  can't  marry  me  to-morrow!"  I 
made  effort  to  laugh,  but  Selwyn's  face,  his  man- 
ner, frightened  me.  "I  want  to  stay  down  here 
and — and  stop  being  as  ignorant  as  a  child  of 
things  women  should  know.  Behind  the  shelter 
of  ignorance  most  women  have  already  shirked 
too  long."  I  held  out  my  hand.  "If  you  stay 
a  bit  longer,  Selwyn,  I'll  say  things  I  shouldn't. 
Good  night." 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  went  down  the 
steps,  and  as  I  watched  him,  for  a  moment  I  felt 
tempted  to  call  him  back.  It  was  not  unusual  for 
us  to  part  indignant  with  each  other.  We  invari- 
ably clashed,  disagreed,  and  argued  hotly  if  we 
got  on  certain  subjects,  but  to-night  I  did  not 
want  him  to  leave  angrily.  Something  had  made 
me  afraid  and  uncertain  and  uneasy.  I  could  not 
define,  could  only  feel  it,  and  if  Selwyn  should 

43 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

fail  me —  Shivering,  I  stood  in  the  doorway,  and 
as  I  started  to  go  in  I  noticed  a  young  fellow  across 
the  street  under  a  tree,  who  seemed  to  be  watching 
the  house.  He  was  evidently  nervous  and  moved 
restlessly  in  the  small  circle  of  the  shadow  cast  by 
the  bare  branches.  Selwyn  apparently  did  not  see 
him,  and,  crossing  the  street,  was  close  upon  him 
before  he  knew  he  was  there.  To  my  astonish- 
ment I  saw  him  start  and  stop,  saw  him  take  the 
man  by  the  arm. 

"What  in  the  name  of  Heaven—  In  the  still, 
cold  air  I  could  hear  distinctly.  "Why  are  you 
down  here  this  time  of  night?  Where  are  you 
going?" 

If  there  was  answer  I  could  not  hear  it,  but  I 
could  see  the  movement  of  the  young  man's  shoul- 
ders, could  see  him  draw  away  and  turn  his  back 
to  Selwyn.  Putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he 
started  toward  the  corner  lighted  by  the  flickering 
gas-jet,  then  turned  and  walked  to  the  one  on 
which  there  was  no  light.  Had  I  known  him,  I 
could  not  have  recognized  him  in  the  darkness, 
but  he  was  evidently  well  known  to  Selwyn,  for 
together  they  went  down  the  street  and  out  of 
sight.  I  wonder  who  he  was. 

For  the  first  time  since  I  came  to  Scarborough 
Square,  Mrs.  Mundy  has  not  been  to-day  her 
chatty  self.  She  does  not  seem  to  want  to  talk — 

44 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

that  is  of  the  girl  I  want  to  talk  about.  When,  in 
my  sitting-room  this  morning,  I  asked  her  the 
girl's  name  she  said  she  did  not  know  it,  did  not 
know  where  she  lived,  or  what  had  happened  to 
her,  and  at  my  look  of  incomprehension  at  her 
seeming  disregard,  she  had  turned  away  and  busied 
herself  in  dusting  the  books  on  the  well-filled  table. 

"She  was  pretty  nervous."  Mrs.  Mundy's  usu- 
ally cheerful  voice  was  troubled.  "To  talk  to  her, 
ask  her  questions,  would  just  have  made  her  more 
so.  They  won't  tell  you  anything  if  they  can  help 
it — girls  like  that — and  I  didn't  try  to  make  her 
tell.  I  gave  her  something  to  quiet  her  and 
stayed  with  her  until  she  was  asleep,  but  when  I 
went  in  the  room  this  morning  she  was  gone. 
Bettina  said  she  heard  some  one  unbolt  the  door 
very  softly,  but  she  thought  'twas  me." 

' '  Do  you  suppose  she  lives  in  this  neighborhood  ? 
Her  people  must  have  been  very  anxious." 

Mrs.  Mundy  turned  and  looked  at  me  queerly. 
She  has  tremendous  admiration  for  what  she  calls 
my  book-learning,  and  sees  no  incongruity  in  my 
ignorance  of  many  things  with  which  she  is  famil- 
iar. My  ignorance,  indeed,  she  thinks  it  her  duty 
to  conserve,  and  already  we  have  had  some  dif- 
ferences of  opinion  as  to  what  I  should  know  and 
not  know  of  the  life  about  us.  There  are  a  good 
many  things  I  have  got  to  make  Mrs.  Mundy  take 
4  45 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

in  more  definitely.  She  thinks  of  me  still  as  a  girl. 
I  am  not.  I  am  a  woman  twenty-six  years  old. 

"Half  the  girls  you've  seen  coming  home  from 
work,  half  who  live  around  the  Square,  haven't 
any  people  here.  What  they  have  is  a  room  in 
somebody's  house.  Many  are  from  the  country 
or  from  small  towns.  Over  sixteen  thousand  work 
in  the  factories  alone.  You  don't  suppose  they  all 
have  homes,  do  you? — have  some  one  who  waits 
up  for  them  at  night,  some  one  who  cares  when 
they  come  in?" 

Before  I  could  answer  she  stopped  her  dusting 
and,  head  on  the  side  and  hands  on  her  hips,  lis- 
tened. ' '  There's  the  iceman  at  the  kitchen  door, ' ' 
she  said,  relievedly.  "I'll  have  to  go  and  let 
him  in." 

It  is  this  I  cannot  understand,  this  unusual 
evasiveness  on  Mrs.  Mundy's  part.  She  is  the 
least  mysterious  of  persons,  is,  indeed,  as  open  as 
the  day,  and  it  is  unlike  her  to  act  as  she  has  done. 
From  childhood  I  have  known  her.  Up  to  the 
time  of  Aunt  Matilda's  marriage  to  Mr.  Ches- 
mond  she  made  my  clothes,  and  for  years,  in  all 
times  of  domestic  complications  has  been  our  de- 
pendence. When  I  decided  to  live  for  a  while  in 
the  house  once  owned  by  my  grandfather,  I  turned 
to  her  in  confidence  that  she  would  care  not  only 
ior  my  material  needs,  but  that  from  her  I  could 

46 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

get  what  no  one  else  could  give  me — an  insight 
into  scenes  and  situations  commonly  concealed 
from  surface  sight. 

Her  knowledge  of  life  is  wide  and  varied.  With 
unfailing  faith  and  cheerful  courage  and  a  habit 
of  seeing  the  humorous  side  of  tragic  catastrophes, 
she  has  done  her  work  among  the  sick  and  for- 
saken, with  no  appeal  to  others  save  a  certain  few ; 
and  only  those  who  have  been  steadied  by  her 
strong  hands,  and  heartened  by  her  buoyant  spirit, 
and  fed  from  her  scant  store,  have  knowledge  or 
understanding  of  what  she  means  to  the  section  of 
the  city  where  the  poor  and  lowly  live.  Bit  by  bit 
I  am  learning,  but  even  yet  it  is  difficult  to  make 
her  tell  me  all  she  does,  or  how  and  when  she 
does  it. 

It  was  partly  because  of  certain  talks  with  her 
that  I  decided  to  come  to  Scarborough  Square.  If 
I  could  make  but  a  few  understand  what  she  under- 
stands— so  understand  that  the  sending  of  a  check 
would  not  sufficiently  relieve  them  from  obliga- 
tion, from  responsibility.  But  how  can  I  make 
clear  to  others  what  is  not  clear  to  me? 

It  will  not  be  Bettina's  fault  if  I  do  not  become 
acquainted  with  my  new  neighbors  in  Scarborough 
Square.  By  the  calendar's  accounting  Bettina's 
years  are  only  thirteen,  but  in  shrewdness  of  pen- 
etration, in  swiftness  of  conclusion,  and  in  accept- 

47 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

ance  of  the  fact  that  most  people  are  queer  she  is 
amazingly  mature.  Her  readiness  to  go  with  me 
anywhere  I  wish  to  go  is  unfailing,  but  save  on 
Saturdays  and  Sundays  we  can  only  pay  our 
visits  in  the  afternoon.  It  is  late  when  she  gets 
from  school,  and  dark  soon  after  we  start,  but  with 
Bettina  I  am  safe. 

Outside  and  inside  of  the  house  our  rdles  are 
reversed.  Concerning  my  books  and  my  pictures, 
concerning  the  people  who  ride  in  their  own  auto- 
mobiles, who  go  to  the1  theatre  whenever  they 
wish,  to  the  fine  churches  with  beautiful  music 
and  paid  pews;  the  people  who  give  parties  and 
wear  gorgeous  clothes  and  eat  mushrooms  and 
terrapin — which  she  considered  inexplicable  taste 
— she  will  ask  me  countless  questions ;  but  outside 
of  the  house  she  becomes  the  teacher  and  I  the 
taught.  Just  what  I  am  learning  she  hardly  un- 
derstands. Much  that  is  new  to  me  is  common- 
place to  her;  and  she  does  not  dream  that  I  often 
cannot  sleep  at  night  for  remembering  what  the 
day  has  shown  me.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to 
see  a  Mrs.  Gibbons,  whose  little  boy,  eleven  years 
of  age,  is  the  head  of  his  mother's  house — the  sup- 
port of  her  family. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TTANDS  in  her  pockets,  Bettina  looked  at  me 
1  *  disappointedly.  "It's  very  cold,"  she  said. 
"Why  don't  you  wear  your  fur  coat?" 

"I  like  this  one  better.  It's  warm  and  not  so 
heavy." 

"Your  fur  coat  is  the  only  one  in  Scarborough 
Square.  A  sure-enough  fur  one,  I  mean.  There're 
plenty  of  imitations.  Mrs.  Grimm's  got  an  imi- 
tation. You  look  awful  grand  in  that  fur  coat- 
look  like  a  princess  person.  Grannie  says  you 
don't  want  to  seem  different  from  the  people  down 
here.  How  are  you  going  to  help  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  mean — "  It  was  silly  that 
my  face  should  flush  before  Bettina's  unblinking 
scrutiny,  but  flush  it  did.  "I  don't  want  to  seem 
different.  People  are  much  more  alike  than  they 
imagine.  If  we  didn't  think  so  much  of  our  differ- 
ences— " 

"Bound  to  think  of  them  when  they're  right  in 
your  face.  You  don't  suppose  you're  anything 
like  Evie  May  Poore,  do  you?  or  Roberta  Wicks, 

49 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

or  Mrs.  Clay  Burt?  Every  time  I  see  Evie  May 
Poore  I  wish  I  was  an  Indian  so  I  could  tomahawk 
her  hair.  Most  of  her  money  goes  in  hair  and 
chewing-gum.  Mr.  Crimm  says  he  thinks  girls 
who  dress  like  Roberta  Wicks  ought  to  be  run  in, 
but  there  ain't  any  law  which  lets  him  do  it.  Mr. 
Crimm's  going  to  a  big  wedding  to-night.  Did  you 
know  it?" 

I  shook  my  head.  In  my  mouth  were  the  pins 
with  which  my  veil  was  to  be  fastened.  Hands  on 
my  hat,  I  straightened  the  latter  before  putting 
on  the  veil. 

"Well,  he  is.  Funny,  ain't  it,  that  all  these 
swells  have  to  have  a  plain-clothes  man  at  wed- 
dings so  the  people  what  come  to  'em  won't  take 
any  of  the  presents?  That's  Mr.  Crimm's  chief 
business  nowadays,  looking  out  for  high-class 
crooks.  He  says  you  ain't  as  strong-colored  as 
some  the  ladies  he  sees  up-town,  but  he  never  did 
see  a  face  with  more  sense  and  soul  in  it  than  what 
yours  has  got.  At  the  last  wedding  he  went  to 
he  told  grannie  some  the  ladies  didn't  have  on 
clothes  enough  to  wad  a  gun.  Are  you  ready?  It 
gets  dark  by  five  o'clock." 

"I'm  ready."  Taking  up  my  muff,  I  followed 
Bettina  down  the  steps  and  into  the  street  to  the 
corner,  on  which  was  the  little  shop  wherein  were 
sold  goldfish  and  canary-birds,  and  fox-terriers 

50 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

and  white  rabbits;  and  from  there  we  turned  in 
the  direction  which  led  to  Mrs.  Gibbons's.  The  day 
Was  cold  and  clear,  but  the  ground  was  slippery 
with  sleet,  and,  holding  on  to  my  arm,  Bettina 
made  valiant  effort  to  pilot  me  aright. 

As  we  walked  she  talked,  and  the  names  of  the 
occupants  of  various  houses  passed  were  told  to 
me,  together  with  the  particular  kind  of  work  in 
which  they  were  engaged,  and  the  amount  of 
wages  which  were  earned  by  different  members  of 
the  household.  The  information  given  me  had 
been  gained  from  her  schoolmates,  and  what  at 
first  had  seemed  appalling  frankness  and  free- 
dom, I  soon  learned  was  a  community  custom, 
and  a  comparison  of  earnings  a  favorite  subject  of 
discussion  among  children  of  .all  ages.  Recess,  it 
appears,  is  the  usual  time  for  an  exchange  of  facts 
concerning  family  affairs. 

"Myra  Blunt,  who  sits  in  front  of  me,  says  she's 
going  in  the  pickle-factory  as  soon  as  she's  four- 
teen." Bettina  slipped,  but  caught  herself,  and 
held  my  arm  more  firmly. 

"She's  our  ashman's  daughter,  and  she's  got  a 
mole  right  on  the  end  of  her  nose.  It's  a  little  on 
one  side,  but  it  looks  awful  funny,  and  Jimmie 
Rice  says  she'll  stay  in  that  pickle-factory  all  her 
life  if  she  don't  have  that  mole  taken  off.  A  boy 
won't  have  a  girl  for  a  sweetheart  if  her  nose  has 

Si 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

got  a  mole  on  it,  will  he?  Myra  is  afraid  it  will 
hurt  to  have  it  come  off.  She's  an  awful  coward. 
This  is  the  place.  This  is  Ninety-two." 

Mrs.  Gibbons's  residence  was  one  of  several  small 
and  shabby  houses  which  huddled  together  as  if  for 
protection,  and  as  we  went  up  the  steps  of  the  shaky 
porch  a  head  from  the  second-story  window  was 
thrust  out— a  head  wrapped  in  a  red  crocheted  shawl. 

"You-all  want  to  see  Mrs.  Gibbons?  Well,  she 
ain't  to  home.  That  is,  I  don't  think  she  is.  She 
told  me  this  morning  she  was  going  down  to  the 
'firmary  to  get  some  medicine  for  that  misery  in 
her  back  what  struck  her  yesterday.  If  she  ain't 
to  home,  you-all  kin  come  up  here  and  rest  your- 
self if  you  want  to.  It's  awful  cold,  ain't  it?" 

Before  we  could  express  our  appreciation  of  the 
hospitality  offered,  the  door  at  which  we  had 
knocked  was  opened  cautiously,  and  at  its  aperture 
a  head  was  seen.  There  was  a  moment's  hesitancy 
and  then  the  door  opened  more  widely. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Gibbons?" 

Bettina  asked  the  question,  and  at  its  answer 
called  to  the  woman  still  leaning  out  of  the  up- 
stairs window,  "She's  home."  Then  she  intro- 
duced me. 

"This  is  Miss  Heath.  Miss  Dandridge  Heath, 
Mrs.  Gibbons;  and  I'm  Bettina  Woll.  We've 
come  to  see  you.  Can  we  come  in?" 

52 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Mrs.  Gibbons,  who  had  nodded  imperceptibly 
in  my  direction  as  Bettina  called  my  name,  mo- 
tioned limply  toward  a  room  on  my  right,  and  as 
I  entered  it  I  looked  at  her  and  saw  at  once  that 
she,  too,  belonged  to  the  unqualified  and  unfit. 
She  must  once  have  been  a  pretty  woman,  but  her 
hair  and  eyes  were  now  a  dusty  black,  her  skin  the 
color  of  putty,  and  her  mouth  a  drooping  curve 
that  gave  to  her  face  the  expression  of  one  who 
was  about  to  cry.  Life  had  apparently  for  some 
time  been  more  than  she  was  equal  to,  and,  inca- 
pable of  battling  further  with  it,  she  radiated  a 
helplessness  that  was  pitiable  and  yet  irritating. 
Thin  and  flat-chested,  her  uncorseted  figure  in  its 
rusty  black  dress  straightened  for  half  a  minute, 
then  again  it  relaxed. 

"Take  a  seat,  won't  you?"  Her  voice  was  as 
listless  as  her  eyes.  "It's  warmer  in  the  kitchen. 
Maybe  you'd  better  come  back  there.  My  little 
girl's  in  there.  She's  sick." 

As  we  turned  to  leave  the  room  I  glanced  around  it. 
The  windows  were  down,  the  shutters  closed,  but  by 
the  light  which  came  through  the  broken  slats  and 
cheap  lace  curtains,  whose  ends  were  spread  expan- 
sively on  the  bare  floor,  I  saw  its  furnishings.  A  bed, 
covered  with  a  white  spread  and  with  pillow-shams 
embroidered  in  red  cotton,  was  against  the  side  of 
the  wall  facing  the  windows,  and  close  to  it  was  a 

53 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

table  on  which  lay  a  switch  of  coarse  black  hair. 
A  crepe-paper  lambrequin  decorated  the  mantel- 
shelf, whose  ornaments  were  a  cup  and  saucer, 
a  shaving-set,  and  a  pair  of  conch-shells;  while 
between  the  windows  was  a  wash-stand  obviously 
kept  for  ornamental  purposes,  as  there  was  no 
water  in  the  pitcher  and  the  basin  was  cracked. 
Pinned  on  the  soft  plastering  of  the  walls  were 
florid  advertisements  of  various  necessities  and 
luxuries  of  life,  together  with  highly  colored  Scrip- 
ture texts,  and  over  the  mantel  hung  a  crayon  of 
the  once  head  of  the  house.  The  room  was  cold 
and  damp.  The  air  in  it  had  not  been  changed  for 
some  time,  and  as  Mrs.  Gibbons  stopped  and 
picked  up  the  baby,  who  at  the  sound  of  voices 
had  crawled  into  the  room,  I  did  not  wonder  at  its 
croupy  cough. 

Down  the  dark  and  narrow  passageway  Bettina 
and  I  followed  our  hostess,  and  at  its  end  I  would 
have  stumbled  over  a  step  had  I  not  been  warned 
in  time.  The  noise  made  by  a  box  overturned  by 
Bettina  gave  the  latter  opportunity  to  give  me 
one  more  injunction. 

1 ' Don't  promise  to  do  too  much  right  off."  The 
whisper  was  uncomfortably  clear.  ' '  She's  the  kind 
who's  like  a  sifter.  You  have  to  be  right  hard 
with  people  like  that —  Take  care!  There's 
another  step!" 

54 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A>  we  entered  the  kitchen,  a  tiny  room  with 
one  window  in  it,  I  glanced  around  it  as  T 
had  done  at  the  front  room,  the  two  seeming  to 
complete  the  suite  occupied  by  Mrs.  Gibbons. 
My  survey  was  quick  and  cautious,  but  not  too 
much  so  for  mental  noting  of  the  conservation  of 
time  and  space  and  labor  represented  by  an 
arrangement  of  household  effects  I  had  never  seen 
before.  Health  and  comfort  were  the  principal 
omissions. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  a  bed  covered 
with  a  calico  quilt  of  many  colors,  and  under  it  a 
pallet,  tucked  away  for  convenience  in  the  day- 
time, but  obviously  out  at  night.  Close  to  the 
bed  was  a  large  stove  in  which  a  good  fire  was 
burning,  and  from  the  blue-and-white  saucepan  on 
the  top  came  forth  odor  of  a  soup  with  which  I 
was  not  familiar.  The  door  of  the  oven  was 
partly  open,  and  in  the  latter  could  be  seen  a  pan 
of  heavy-looking  biscuits  which  apparently  awaited 
their  devouring  at  any  time  that  suited  the  desire 

55 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

of  the  devourer.  Bettina  looked  at  them  and  then 
at  me,  but  she  said  nothing — that  is,  nothing 
out  loud. 

"Set  down."  Mrs.  Gibbons,  the  baby  still  in 
her  arms,  made  effort  to  dust  one  of  the  two 
chairs  in  the  room  with  the  gingham  apron  she 
was  wearing,  and,  after  failing,  motioned  me  to 
take  it.  The  other  one  she  pushed  toward  Bet- 
tina with  her  foot.  On  the  bed  was  a  little  girl 
of  six  or  seven,  and  as  we  took  our  seats  a  boy, 
who  barely  looked  ten,  came  from  behind  a  couple 
of  wash-tubs  in  an  opposite  corner  of  the  room 
and  wiped  his  hands  on  a  towel  hanging  from  a 
hook  in  the  wall.  To  ask  something  concerning 
this  boy  was  the  purpose  of  our  visit. 

"Speak  to  the  lady,  Jimmy.  Anybody  would 
think  you  didn't  have  no  manners!  No,  you  can't 
have  your  supper  yet." 

Mrs.  Gibbons  waved  her  hand  weakly  at  her 
son,  who,  smiling  at  us,  had  gone  to  a  corner 
cupboard  with  perforated  tins  of  diamond  pat- 
tern in  its  doors,  and  taken  therefrom  a  soup- 
plate  and  cup  and  saucer.  Paying  no  attention 
to  his  mother's  reference  to  a  delayed  meal, 
he  ladled  out  of  the  big  saucepan,  with  a  cracked 
cup,  a  plate  of  the  steaming  soup,  and  carried  it 
carefully  to  an  oilcloth-covered  table,  on  which 
was  a  lamp  and  glass  pitcher,  some  unwashed 

56 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

dishes  left  from  the  last  meal,  a  broken  doll,  and 
a  child's  shoe.  Putting  down  the  plate  of  soup,  he 
came  back  to  the  stove  and  poured  out  a  cup  of 
feeble-booking  coffee. 

"Coin'  to  be  extras  out  to-night  and  I  mightn't 
get  back  till  after  ten."  Again  his  gay  little  smile 
lighted  his  thin  face.  "Ifen  I  don't  eat  now  I 
mightn't  eat  at  all.  Have  one?" 

He  poked  a  plate  of  the  health-destroying  bis- 
cuits at  Bettina  with  a  merry  little  movement, 
and  bravely  she  took  one,  bravely  made  effort  to 
eat  it.  ' '  What's  your  name  ?"  I  heard  him  ask  her, 
and  then  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Gibbons. 

"It  is  about  your  little  boy  I've  come  to  see 
you."  I  moved  my  chair  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  red-hot  stove  and  opened  my  coat.  "He  is 
too  young  to  be  at  work.  He  isn't  twelve,  is  he?" 

The  indignation  I  had  felt  on  hearing  of  Jimmy's 
bondage  to  a  bench  from  seven  in  the  morning  to 
six  in  the  evening,  with  an  interval  of  an  hour  for 
lunch,  was  unaccountably  disappearing.  With 
helplessness  and  incapacity  I  was  not  ordinarily 
patient,  and  Mrs.  Gibbons  was  an  excellent  ex- 
ample of  both.  Still — "He  isn't  twelve  yet,  is 
he?"  I  repeated. 

Mrs.  Gibbons  pushed  the  little  girl,  who  was 
trying  to  get  out  of  the  bed,  back  in  it,  and 
shifted  the  whimpering  baby  from  one  arm  to  the 

57 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

other.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  looked  at  me 
uncertainly. 

"No  'm,  he  ain't  but  eleven,  but  I  had  to  tell 
the  mayor  that  signed  the  papers  permitting  of 
him  to  work,  that  he  was  twelve.  The  law  don't 
let  children  work  lessen  they're  twelve,  and  only 
then  if  their  mother  is  a  widow  and  'ain't  got  noth- 
ing and  nobody  to  do  for  her.  I  don't  like  to  tell 
a  story  if  I  can  help  it,  and  them  what  don't  know 
nothing  'bout  how  things  is  can't  understand,  and 
say  we  oughtn't  to  do  it.  They'd  do  it,  too,  ifen 
they  had  to.  After  his  father  died  I  had  to  take 
Jimmy  out  of  school  and  put  him  to  work.  There 
wasn't  nothing  else  to  do." 

"Has  his  father  been  dead  long?"  I  moved  still 
further  from  the  stove.  My  question  was  unthink- 
ing. He  couldn't  have  been  dead  long. 

"In  days  and  months  it  'ain't  been  so  long,  but 
it's  been  awful  long  to  me.  'Taint  been  more'n  a 
year  since  they  brought  him  home  to  me  dead, 
and  I  been  plum'  no  'count  ever  since.  This  baby," 
she  put  the  child  in  her  arms  on  her  lap  and  shook 
her  knees  in  mechanical  effort  to  still  its  cries, 
"this  baby  was  born  while  its  father  was  being 
buried,  and  when  I  took  in  my  man  was  gone  and 
wouldn't  never  come  home  no  more,  never  give 
me  his  wages  on  Saturday  nights,  and  wouldn't 
be  here  to  do  nothing  for  me  and  the  children, 

58 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

seems  like  something  inside  me  just  give  out.  I 
reckon  you  'ain't  never  had  nothing  to  happen  to 
you  like  that,  have  you?" 

"No,  I've  never  had  anything  like  that  to 
happen  to  me."  The  last  remnant  of  indignation 
was  vanishing.  That  is,  against  the  helpless,  inca- 
pable, worn-out  woman  who  was  Jimmy's  mother. 
Against  something  else,  something  I  could  not 
place  or  define  or  call  by  name,  it  was  rising  storm- 
ily.  "I  know  you  need  Jimmy's  help,"  I  said, 
after  a  moment,  "but  he  is  too  young  to  work, 
too  small." 

"Came  near  not  getting  a  job  'count  of  not 
being  no  bigger." 

His  mouth  filled  with  half  a  biscuit,  the  boy 
nodded  at  me  gleefully,  then  putting  down  his 
spoon,  he  dusted  his  hands  and  wiped  them  on  the 
side  of  his  trousers.  "The  first  place  mother  and 
me  went  to,  they  wouldn't  take  me  'cause  the 
table  where  I'd  had  to  work  struck  me  right  here." 
His  hands  swiped  his  throat  just  under  his  chin. 
"But  the  next  place  was  all  right.  They  had  a 
boys'  table  and  the  bench  was  made  high  on 
purpose." 

"What  is  it  you  do?"  I  asked,  and  again  my 
voice  sounded  strange.  "Is  it  a  box-factory 
you're  in?" 

"Soap  and  pills."  Head  thrown  back,  Jimmy 
59 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

drained  the  last  drop  of  coffee  from  his  cup,  then 
scraped  the  latter  with  a  tin  spoon  for  its  last  bit 
of  sugar.  "We  are  pasters,  our  gang  is.  We 
paste  the  paper  on  the  boxes.  There's  a  boy  sits 
next  to  me  what's  the  fastest  paster  in  town,  but 
I'm  going  to  beat  him  some  day.  I  can  paste 
almost  as  fast  as  he  can  now." 

"He  could  beat  him  now  if  he  didn't  play  so 
much."  In  his  mother's  voice  was  neither  scold- 
ing nor  complaint.  "Jimmy  always  would  play 
some  from  the  time  he  was  born.  His  boss  says 
he's  the  best  worker  he's  got  'cepting  the  boy  who 
sits  next  to  him,  and  if  he'd  just  stay  still  all 
day—" 

"Oh,  can  he  play?"  I  made  no  apology  for  the 
interruption.  The  child  was  undersized  and  illy- 
nourished,  and  to  let  him  work  ten  hours  a  day 
seemed  a  crime  for  which  I,  and  all  others  who 
cared  for  children,  were  somehow  responsible.  But 
if  he  had  a  chance  to  play— 

"When  old  Miss  High-Spy  goes  out  the  room 
we  play."  Jimmy  gave  his  trousers  a  jerk  and 
made  effort  to  force  connection  between  a  button 
and  a  buttonhole  belonging  respectively  to  his 
upper  and  his  lower  garments.  "She's  a  regular 
old  tale-teller,  but  soon  as  she's  out  the  room  we 
get  down  from  our  bench  and  rush  around  and 
tag  each  other.  Our  benches  'ain't  got  no  backs  to 

60 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

'em,  and  if  we  didn't  get  off  sometimes  we  couldn't 
sit  up  all  day.  The  other  fellows,  the  big  ones, 
don't  tell  on  us.  They  make  us  put  the  windows 
down  from  the  top  when  she's  out." 

"Do  you  mean  you  don't  have  any  air  in  the 
room?"  My  voice  was  unbelieving,  and  at  some- 
thing in  my  face  Jimmy  laughed. 

"Not  when  we're  working.  The  wind  might 
blow  the  little  pieces  of  paper  off  the  table  and 
we'd  lose  time  getting  'em,  she  says.  Some  the 
boys  get  so  sick  from  the  heat  and  the  glue  smell 
they  heave  up  their  breakfast  and  can't  eat  noth- 
ing all  day.  I  'ain't  fainted  but  twice  since  I  been 
there,  but  Alex  Hobbs  keels  over  once  a  week, 
anyhow.  Used  to  frighten  me  at  first  when  I  saw 
him  getting  green-y,  but  I  don't  mind  it  now." 

With  a  quick  turn  of  his  head  Jimmy  looked  at 
a  small  clock  on  the  shelf  above  the  wash-tubs, 
and  got  up  with  even  quicker  movement.  "I  for- 
got about  the  wood,  and  the  papers  will  be  ready 
'fore  I  can  get  there  if  I  don't  hurry.  Good-by 
to  you  all,"  and,  slamming  the  door  behind  him, 
he  ran  down  the  kitchen  steps  into  the  yard, 
where  in  a  moment  we  heard  him  whistling  as 
he  chopped  the  wood  that  must  be  brought 
up  for  the  morning. 

It  was  not  often  Mrs.  Gibbons  had  a  listener 
who  had  never  before  heard  of  her  hardships,  and 
5  61 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

after  explaining  to  me  why  Jimmy  was  at  home  at 
that  time  of  the  day,  his  presence  being  due  not 
to  trifling  on  his  part,  but  to  the  half-time  the 
factory  was  running,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the 
luxury  of  telling  me  in  detail  of  her  many  mis- 
fortunes and  of  her  inability  to  get  through  the 
winter  unless  additional  help  were  given  her. 

"Can't  you  work?"  I  asked.  "If  the  children 
are  put  in  a  day  nursery  they  would  be  well  looked 
after,  and  you  would  probably  be  more  comfort- 
able in  a  good  factory  than  here." 

"A  good  factory!"  The  inflection  in  her  voice 
was  one  of  listless  tolerance  for  my  ignorance. 
"I  don't  reckon  you  ever  worked  in  one.  There 
ain't  none  of  'em  good.  Some's  better  than  others, 
but  when  you  get  up  at  five  o'clock  on  winter 
mornings  and  make  the  fire  and  melt  the  water,  if 
it's  frozen,  to  wash  your  face  with,  and — 

"Does  it  freeze  in  here?"  Bettina,  who  had  by 
effort  restrained  herself  from  taking  part  in  the 
conversation,  leaned  forward  and  dug  her  hands 
deep  in  her  lap.  "Does  it  really  freeze  in  this  hot 
room?" 

"It  ain't  hot  in  here  at  night.  Last  winter  it 
froze  'most  every  night  for  a  month.  Mis'  Cot- 
ter was  boarding  with  me  last  winter,  her  and 
her  little  girl  both.  She's  the  lady  what  rents  the 
room  between  the  kitchen  and  the  front  room  from 

62 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

me.  She  sews  on  carpets  and  the  place  she  works 
at  is  right  far  from  here.  She  warn't  well  last 
winter — some  kind  of  misery  is  always  on  her — 
and  she  asked  me  to  board  her  so  she  wouldn't 
have  to  do  no  cooking  before  she  goes  away  in  the 
morning  and  when  she  comes  back  at  night." 

With  a  swift  movement  of  her  hand  Mrs.  Gib- 
bons caught  the  little  girl,  who,  behind  her  back, 
was  making  ready  to  slip  off  the  bed  and  on  the 
floor,  but  as  she  swung  her  again  in  place  she 
kept  up  her  talking,  and  by  neither  rise  nor  fall  was 
the  monotone  of  her  voice  broken. 

"I  had  to  get  up  at  five  so  as  to  have  breakfast 
in  time,  for  I  can't  get  the  room  warm  and  the 
things  cooked  in  less'n  an  hour,  and  she  has  to 
leave  here  a  little  after  six  so  as  to  take  her  little 
girl  to  the  nursery  before  she  goes  to  her  place,  and 
they  ain't  noways  close  together.  The  stars  are 
shining  when  she  goes  out  and  they're  shining 
when  she  comes  in;  that  is,  if  the  weather's  good. 
She's  been  so  wore  out  lately  she's  been  taking  her 
meals  again  with  me,  but  I  don't  see  much  of  her. 
She  goes  to  bed  the  minute  she's  through  supper." 

Bettina  twisted  in  her  chair.  ' '  Do  you  eat  and 
sleep  in  here,  too?"  she  asked.  Her  eyes  were  on 
Mrs.  Gibbons.  Carefully  she  kept  them  from 
mine.  "Do  you  always  eat  in  here?" 

"We  eat  in  here  all  the  time  and  sleep  in  here 
63 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

in  winter,  because  there  ain't  but  one  fire.  That 
goes  out  early,  which  is  why  the  water  freezes. 
Jimmy  has  to  bring  it  up  from  the  yard  in  buckets, 
and  as  the  nurse-lady  who  comes  down  here  says 
we  must  have  fresh  air  in  the  room,  being  'tis  all 
four  of  us  sleep  in  it,  I  keep  the  window  open  at 
night.  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  all  this  fresh-air 
talk.  'Taint  only  the  water  what  gets  froze— 

"Why  don't  you  cover  a  bucketful  of  it  with 
one  of  those  tubs?"  Again  Bettina's  forefinger 
pointed.  "That  would  keep  the  wind  off  and 
the  water  wouldn't  freeze  if  it  was  covered  up." 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  Get  back,  Rosie!" 
Mrs.  Gibbons  made  effort  to  catch  her  little 
daughter,  but  this  time  the  child  wriggled  down 
from  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  came  toward  me, 
hands  behind  her  back,  and  stared  up  into  my 
face. 

"Whatchaname?" 

I  told  her  and  asked  hers,  and  without  further 
preliminaries  she  came  close  to  me  and  hunched 
her  shoulders  to  be  taken  in  my  lap. 

"We've  got  to  go — we're  bound  to  go,  Miss 
Dandridge!"  With  a  leap  Bettina  was  out  of  her 
chair,  and,  catching  the  little  girl  by  the  hand, 
she  drew  her  from  me  and  dangled  in  front  of  her  a 
once-silvered  mesh-bag,  took  from  it  a  penny,  and 
gave  it  to  her;  then  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Gibbons. 

64 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

"We're  awful  glad  we've  seen  you."  Bettina 
nodded  gravely  to  the  woman  on  the  bed.  "And 
of  course  we  won't  tell  anybody  about  ^immy  not 
being  twelve  yet ;  but  Miss  Heath  wants  him  to  go 
back  to  school,  and  she's  coming  to  see  you  soon 
about  it.  We've  got  to  go  now." 

In  a  manner  I  could  not  understand,  Bettina, 
who  had  gotten  up  and  was  now  standing  behind 
Mrs.  Gibbons,  beckoned  to  me  mysteriously,  and, 
fearing  the  latter  might  become  aware  of  her  vio- 
lent movements,  I,  too,  got  up  and  shook  hands 
with  my  hostess. 

"I  will  see  you  in  a  few  days,"  I  said.  "There's 
no  chance  for  Jimmy  if  he  doesn't  have  some 
education.  He  ought  to  go  back  to  school." 

"Yes  'm,  I  know  he  ought,  but  he  can't  go." 
Jimmy's  mother  shook  hands,  limply.  "The 
pickle-factory  where  I  used  to  work  is  turning  off 
hands  every  week,  and  I  can't  get  nothing  to  do 
there.  I  don't  know  how  to  do  nothing  but 
pickles.  Sometimes  I  gets  a  little  sewing  at  home, 
but  I  ain't  a  sewer.  The  Charities  sends  me  a 
basket  of  keep-life-in-you  groceries  every  now  and 
then,  and  the  city  gives  me  some  coal  and  wood 
when  there's  enough  to  go  round  more  than  once, 
but  I  need  Jimmy's  money  for  the  rent." 

"If  the  rent  were  paid  would  you  let  him  go 
back  to  school?" 

65 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"Yes  'm."  The  dull  voice  quickened  not  at  all. 
"I'd  be  glad  to  let  him  go.  I  don't  want  him  to 
work,  but  them  that  don't  know  how  it  is  can't 
understand.  You-all  must  come  again.  Good-by. 
Come  back  here,  Rosie.  You'll  catch  your  death 
out  there.  Good-by." 

In  the  open  air,  which  felt  good  after  the  steam- 
ing heat  of  the  bedroom-kitchen,  Bettina  and  I 
walked  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  then, 
slipping  her  arm  in  mine,  she  looked  up  at  me  with 
wise  little  eyes. 

"Please  excuse  me  for  telling  you,  Miss  Dan- 
dridge,  but  you're  new  yet  in  the  places  you've 
been  going  to  since  you  came  to  Scarborough 
Square,  and  you'll  have  to  be  careful  about  taking 
the  children  on  your  lap  and  in  your  arms,  if 
they're  babies.  You  love  children,  and  you  just 
naturally  hold  out  your  hands  to  them,  but  if  you 
don't  know  them  very  well,  you'd  better  not.  All 
of  them  ain't  healthy,  and  hardly  any— 

Bettina  stopped  and,  standing  still,  looked 
straight  ahead  of  her  at  a  man  and  a  young 
woman  crossing  the  street  some  little  distance 
from  us.  Then  she  looked  up  at  me.  The  man 
was  Selwyn.  The  girl  with  him  was  the  odd  and 
elfish  little  creature  who  had  been  hurt  in  Scar- 
borough Square  and  whom  he  had  helped  bring 
in  to  Mrs.  Mundy. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DETTINA,  who  had  opened  the  door  for 
*-*  Selwyn  on  his  last  visit,  and  who  had  in- 
formed me  the  next  day  that  she  had  "shivered 
with  trembles"  because  of  his  great  difference  to 
the  men  in  Scarborough  Square,  for  the  second 
time  looked  up  at  me. 

"What  is  he  doing  down  here?"  Her  finger 
pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  man  and  woman 
just  ahead  of  us.  "What's  he  talking  to  that  girl 
for?" 

I  did  not  answer  her  at  once.  Amazement  and 
unbelief  were  making  my  heart  hot,  and  a  flood 
of  color  burned  my  face.  Of  all  men  on  earth,  Sel- 
wyn was  the  last  to  find  in  this  part  of  the  town 
at  this  time  of  the  evening,  and  as  he  bent  his 
head  to  speak  to  the  girl  I  noticed  he  was  talking 
earnestly  and  using  his  hands  in  expressive  ges- 
tures as  he  talked.  Starting  forward,  I  took  a 
few  steps  and  then  stopped,  sharply. 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is  doing  down  here. 
Certainly  he  is  at  liberty  to  come  here  just  as 
we  come." 

67 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Bettina's  eyes  strained  in  the  darkness.  ' '  I  can't 
see  her  face.  If  we  cross  over  we  can  catch  up 
with  them  by  the  time  they  reach  the  corner 
where  we  could  see  her  in  the  light."  The  grip  of 
my  hand  on  her  arm  made  her  stop.  "I  mean — 

"You  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

It  was  silly,  childish,  unreasonable,  that  I  should 
speak  sharply  to  Bettina,  and  equally  unreason- 
able that  fear  and  horror  and  sickening  suspicion 
should  possess  me,  but  possessed  I  was  by  sensa- 
tions hitherto  unexperienced,  and  for  a  moment 
the  gaslight  from  the  lamp  on  the  opposite  street 
corner  wavered  and  circled  in  a  confusing,  bewil- 
dering way.  Sudden  revelations,  sudden  realiza- 
tions, were  unsteadying  me.  Was  Selwyn  really 
some  one  I  did  not  know?  Was  his  life  less  single 
than  I  believed  it?  Hateful,  ugly,  disloyal  ques- 
tions surged  tumultuously  for  a  half -minute;  then 
reason  returned,  and  shame  that  I  should  insult 
him  with  doubt,  cooled  the  flame  in  my  face. 

"It's  too  late  to  go  to  the  Binkers.  We'd  better 
go  home.  We'll  go  there  some  other  afternoon." 

I  turned  from  Bettina's  amazed  eyes.  My  tone 
of  voice  a  moment  before  was  still  perplexing  her, 
and  unblinkingly  she  was  searching  my  face. 
Hitherto  her  directness,  her  frankness  of  speech 
and  use  of  words,  had  amused  me,  and  I  had  per- 
mitted, perhaps,  too  great  an  exercise  of  her  gift 

68 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

of  comment;  but  applied  personally  it  was  a  dif- 
ferent matter. 

"We'll  go  to  the  corner  and  turn  there,"  I  said. 
"That  will  be  the  nearest  way  home." 

"But  don't  you  want  to  see  who  she  is?"  Scar- 
borough Square  customs  were  those  most  familiar 
to  Bettina,  and  they  exacted  understanding  of 
doubtful  situations.  "Don't  you  want  to  see 
what — what  she  looks  like?" 

"Why  should  I?  Mr.  Thorne  knows  many 
people  I  do  not  know."  I  moved  toward  the  cor- 
ner. "Come  on.  It's  getting  late." 

"Gentlemen  like  him  don't  know  girls  like  her. 
She  lives  down  here  somewhere,  and  he  lives 
where  you  used  to  live.  He  couldn't  be  sweet  on 
her,  because — because  he  couldn't."  She  caught 
up  with  me.  "He's  yours,  ain't  he,  Miss  Danny? 
You'd  better  tell  him — " 

I  hated  myself  for  looking  across  the  street,  but 
as  I  hurried  on  my  eyes  were  following  Selwyn 
and  the  girl,  and  when  I  saw  the  latter  stop  and 
bury  her  face  in  her  hands,  saw  Selwyn  say  some- 
thing to  her,  saw  him  turn  in  one  direction  and  she 
in  another,  I,  too,  stopped;  for  a  moment  was 
unable  to  move. 

We  had  reached  the  corner  as  Selwyn  left  the 
opposite  one  and  came  toward  us.  Head  down, 
as  if  deeply  thinking,  he  did  not  look  up  until 

69 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

close  to  us.  Under  the  gaslight  I  waited,  not 
knowing  why,  and  Bettina  being  behind  me,  he 
thought  I  was  alone  when  presently  he  saw  me. 

"Dandridge!"  He  stared  as  if  stupefied  with 
amazement.  Lifting  his  hat  mechanically,  he 
came  closer.  "What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  are 
you  doing  here  alone  this  time  of  night?  Are  you 
losing  your  mind?" 

His  entire  absence  of  embarrassment,  his  usual 
disapproval  of  my  behavior,  his  impatient  anger, 
had  an  unlooked-for  effect,  and  sudden  relief  and 
hot  joy  so  surged  over  me  that  I  laughed,  a  queer, 
nervous,  choking  little  laugh. 

"I  am  not  alone.  It  is  not  yet  six,  and  I  have 
been  to  see  a  boy  who  is  what  you  are  not — the 
head  of  a  house.  I  mean  a  house  with  a  family  in 
it.  Have  you,  too,  been  visiting?" 

His  face  flushed,  and  frowningly  he  turned  away. 
"I  had  business  down  here.  I  had  to  come  to  it 
as  it  could  not  be  brought  to  me.  Where  are  you 
going?" 

"Home." 

Bettina,  who  in  some  unaccountable  way  had 
managed  to  stay  behind  me,  came  forward  and 
bowed  as  if  to  an  audience.  "I've  been  taking  her 
to  where  she  goes,  Mr.  Thome,  and  grannie 
knows  all  the  places.  There  ain't  one  that's  got 
a  disease  in  it,  and  Mr.  Crimm  would  tell  us  if  it 

70 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

wasn't  right  to  go  to  them.  She  don't  ever  go 
anywhere  by  herself.  She's  too  new  yet." 

Selwyn  smiled  grudgingly.  Bettina's  fat  and 
short  little  body  made  effort  to  stretch  to  protec- 
tive requirements,  and  her  keen  eyes  raised  to  his 
held  them  for  a  moment.  Then  she  turned  to  me. 

"Maybe  he'd  like  to  go  to  some  of  the  homes 
we  go  to  and  see — " 

"No.  He  doesn't  want  to  see."  I  caught  her 
hand  and  slipped  it  through  my  arm.  "It's  much 
more  comfortable  not  to  see.  One  can  sleep  so 
much  better.  Are  you  going  our  way?"  I  turned 
to  Selwyn.  "If  you  are,  we'd  better  start." 

For  a  full  block  we  said  nothing.  Selwyn, 
biting  the  ends  of  his  close-cut  mustache,  walked 
beside  me,  hands  in  his  pockets  and  eyes  straight 
ahead,  and  not  until  Bettina  had  twice  asked  him 
if  he  knew  where  Rowland  Street  was  did  he 
answer  her. 

"Rowland  Street?"  He  turned  abruptly,  as 
if  brought  back  to  something  far  removed  in 
thought.  "What  on  earth  do  you  know  of  Row- 
land Street?" 

"Nothing — I  never  knew  there  was  a  street  by 
that  name  until  last  week  when  I  heard  a  girl  talk- 
ing to  grannie,  who  said  she  lived  on  it.  She  did 
her  hands,  when  she  talked,  just  like  the  girl  with 
you  did."  Bettina  twisted  hers  in  imitative 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

movements.  "She  didn't  keep  her  hands  still 
a  minute." 

' '  Few  girls  do  when  they  talk.  They  apparently 
prefer  to  use  their  hands  to  their  brains. ' '  Selwyn's 
shoulders  shrugged  impatiently,  then  his  teeth 
came  together  on  his  lip.  Again  he  stared  ahead 
and,  save  for  Bettina's  chatter,  we  walked  in 
silence  to  Scarborough  Square. 

There  had  been  few  times  in  my  life  in  which 
speech  was  impossible,  but  during  the  quarter 
of  an  hour  it  took  us  to  reach  home  words  would 
not  come,  and  numbness  possessed  my  body. 
A  world  of  possibilities,  a  world  I  did  not  know, 
seemed  suddenly  revealing  itself,  and  at  its  dark 
depths  and  sinister  shadows  I  was  frightened, 
and  more  than  frightened.  Conflicting  and  con- 
fusing emotions,  a  sense  of  outrage  and  revolt,  were 
making  me  first  hot  and  then  cold,  and  distrust  and 
suspicion  and  baffling  helplessness  were  envelop- 
ing me  beyond  resistance.  The  happy  ignorance 
and  unconcern  and  indifference  of  my  girlhood, 
my  young  womanhood,  were  vanishing  before 
cruel  and  compelling  verities,  and  that  which,  be- 
cause of  its  ugliness,  its  off ensiveness,  its  repulsive- 
ness,  I  had  wanted  to  know  nothing  about,  I  knew 
I  would  now  be  forced  to  face. 

It  was  true  what  Mrs.  Mundy  and  Aunt  Matilda 
and  Selwyn  and  even  Kitty,  four  years  younger 

72 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

than  myself,  had  often  told  me,  that  in  knowledge 
of  certain  phases  of  life  I  was  unwarrantably  lack- 
ing. Subjects  that  had  seemingly  interested  other 
girls  and  other  women  had  never  interested  me,  and 
I  took  no  part  in  their  discussion.  And  now  the 
protection  of  the  past  that  had  prevented  under- 
standing of  sordid  situations  and  polluting  possi- 
bilities was  being  roughly  torn  away,  and  I  was 
seeing  that  which  not  only  stung  and  shocked  and 
sickened,  but  I  was  seeing  myself  as  one  who  after 
selfish  sleep  had  been  rudely  waked. 

Head  and  heart  hot,  I  pushed  back  upleaping 
questions,  forced  down  surging  suspicion  and  tor- 
menting fears,  but  all  the  while  I  was  conscious 
that  in  the  friendship  that  was  mine  and  Selwyn's, 
the  something  that  was  more  than  friendship,  a 
great  gap  had  opened  that  was  separating  us.  If 
he  gave  no  explanation  of  his  acquaintance  with 
the  girl  he  had  just  left,  it  must  be  because  he  could 
not.  He  knew  my  hatred  of  mystery,  my  insist- 
ence upon  frankness  between  friends.  Would  he 
come  in  and  talk  as  freely  as  he  had  ever  done 
**  of  whatever  concerned  him?  Would  he  tell  me — 

As  I  opened  the  door  with  my  latch-key  Bettina 
bounded  inside,  and  the  light  falling  on  Selwyn's 
face  showed  it  white  and  worn.  Something  was 
greatly  troubling  him. 

"Good  night."  He  turned  toward  the  steps 
73 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

without  offering  his  hand.  "It  is  useless  to  ask 
you  not  to  go  in  such  neighborhoods  as  you  were 
in  this  evening,  but  if  you  knew  what  you  were 
doing  you  would  stay  away." 

"I  know  very  well  what  I  am  doing.  I  am 
hardly  so  stubborn  or  wilful  as  you  think.  But  if 
it  is  unwise  for  me  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  re- 
ferred to,  is  it  any  less  wise — for  you?" 

' '  Me  ?"  The  inflection  in  his  voice  was  the  eter- 
nal difference  in  a  man's  and  woman's  privileges. 
"It  was  not  a  question  of  wisdom — my  being 
where  you  saw  me.  It  was  one  of  necessity. 
Moreover,  a  man  can  go  where  he  pleases.  A 
woman  can't.  No  purity  of  purpose  can  overcome 
the  tyranny  of  convention." 

"Convention!"  My  hands  made  impatient  ges- 
ture. "It's  the  drag-net  of  human  effort,  the 
shelter  within  which  cowards  run  to  cover.  In  its 
place  it  has  purpose,  but  its  place,  for  convenience 
sake,  has  been  immensely  magnified.  And  why 
is  convention  limited  to  women?" 

It  was  childish — my  outburst — and,  ashamed  of 
it,  I  started  to  go  in,  then  turned  and  again  looked 
at  Selwyn.  Into  his  face  had  come  something  I 
could  not  understand,  something  that  involved  our 
future  friendship,  and,  frightened,  I  leaned  against 
t%e  iron  railing  of  the  little  porch  and  gripped  it 
with  hands  behind  my  back. 

74 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

' '  Selwyn !' '  The  words  came  unsteadily.  ' '  Have 
you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Selwyn?  Don't  you 
know  that  I  know  the  girl  with  you  to-night  was 
the  girl  who — who  we  brought  in  here  last  night? 
If  you  knew  her,  why — 

Staring  at  me  as  if  not  understanding,  Selwyn 
came  closer.  In  his  eyes  was  puzzled  questioning, 
but  as  they  held  mine  they  filled  with  something 
of  horror,  and  over  his  face,  which  had  been  white 
and  worn,  spread  deep  and  crimson  flush.  "You 
don't  mean —  God  in  heaven !  Do  you  think  the 
girl  is  anything  to  me?" 

I  did  not  answer,  and,  turning,  he  went  down 
the  steps  and  I  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 

FOR  the  past  ten  days  I  have  been  a  very 
restless  person.  Mrs.  Mundy  looks  at  me  out 
of  the  corners  of  her  kind  and  keen  and  cheery 
little  eyes  when  she  does  not  think  I  am  noticing, 
but  she  asks  me  nothing.  Mrs.  Mundy  is  the 
wisest  woman  I  know. 

If  only  I  could  sleep!  During  the  days  I  am 
busy,  but  I  dread  the  long  nights  when  questions 
crowd  that,  fight  as  I  may,  I  cannot  keep  from 
asking.  Selwyn  is  my  friend.  I  never  doubt  a 
friend.  But  why  does  he  not  come  to  me?  Why 
does  he  not  make  clear  that  which  he  must  know 
is  inexplicable  to  me  ? 

I  may  never  marry  Selwyn,  but  certainly  I 
shall  marry  no  one  else.  How  could  we  hope  for 
happiness  when  we  feel  so  differently  toward  much 
that  is  vital,  when  our  attitude  to  life  is  as  apart 
as  the  poles?  When  each  thinks  the  other  wrong 
in  points  of  view  and  manner  of  living?  Selwyn 
was  born  in  a  house  with  high  walls  around  it. 
He  likes  its  walls.  He  does  not  care  for  many  to 

76 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

come  in,  and  cares  still  less  to  go  outside  to  others. 
Few  people  interest  him.  All  sorts  interest  me. 
We  are  both  selfish  and  stubborn,  but  both  hate 
that  which  is  not  clean  and  clear,  and  save  from 
his  own  lips  I  would  not  believe  that  in  his  life  is 
aught  of  which  he  could  not  tell  me. 

I  have  never  told  him  I  loved  him,  never  prom- 
ised to  marry  him.  To  live  in  his  high-walled 
house  with  its  conventional  customs,  its  age- 
dimmed  portraits,  its  stiff  furnishings,  and  shut- 
out sunshine,  would  stifle  every  cell  in  brain  and 
lungs,  and  to  marry  him  would  be  to  marry  his 
house.  I  hate  his  house,  hate  the  aloofness,  the 
lack  of  sympathy  it  represents.  Its  proud  past 
I  can  appreciate,  but  not  its  useless  present. 
Save  his  brother  Harrie,  it  is  the  one  thing  of  his 
old  life  left  Selwyn.  At  the  death  of  his  father 
he  bought  Harrie 's  interest  and  it  is  all  his  now. 
I  would  not  ask  him  to  live  elsewhere,  but  I 
would  choke  and  smother  did  I  live  in  his  house. 
And  yet — 

Ten  days  have  passed  and  I  have  neither  seen 
nor  heard  from  Selwyn. 

I  have  often  wondered,  on  waking  winter  morn- 
ings in  my  very  warm  bed,  how  it  would  feel  to  go 
out  in  the  gray  dawn  of  a  new  day  and  hurry  off  to 
work.  Now  I  know. 

6  77 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

For  more  than  a  week  I  have  been  up  at  five 
forty-five,  and  at  six-thirty  have  been  hurrying 
with  Lucy  Hobbs,  who  lives  around  the  corner,  to 
the  overalls-factory,  where  she  is  a  forewoman. 
It  is  dark  and  cold  and  raw  at  half -past  six  on  a 
winter  morning,  and  the  sunrise  is  very  different 
from  what  it  is  in  summer. 

Each  morning  as  I  started  out  with  Lucy,  and 
hurried  down  street  after  street,  I  watched  the 
opening  doors  of  the  shabby,  dull-looking  houses 
we  passed  with  keen  interest.  Ash-cans  and  gar- 
bage-pails were  in  front  of  many  of  them,  and 
through  unshuttered  windows  a  child  could  occa- 
sionally be  seen  with  its  face  pressed  against  the 
pane,  waiting  to  wave  good-by  to  some  one  who 
was  leaving.  Out  of  the  doors  of  these  houses 
came  men  and  women  and  boys  and  girls,  who 
hurried  as  we  hurried,  and  with  a  word  to  some, 
a  wave  of  her  uplifted  hand  to  others,  a  blank 
stare  at  others  again,  Lucy  seemed  leading  a  long 
procession.  Around  each  corner  and  from  every 
car  that  passed  came  more  "Hands,"  and  each 
morning  when  the  factory  was  reached  a  crowd 
that  jammed  its  entrance  and  extended  half  a 
block  up  and  down  the  street  was  waiting  for  the 
opening  of  the  door,  out  of  which  it  would  not 
come  until  darkness  fell  again. 

For  the  first  day  or  two  I  was  noticed  with 
78 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

indifference  on  the  part  of  some,  resentment  on 
the  part  of  others,  but  on  the  third  day,  as  I  took 
my  place  in  the  pushing,  laughing,  growling  crowd 
that  made  its  way  up  several  flights  of  stairs  to 
the  big  room  where  shabby  clothes  are  changed 
for  yet  shabbier  working  ones,  my  good-mornings 
were  greeted  with  less  grudging  acknowledgments, 
and  now  we  are  quite  friendly,  these  "Hands"  and 
I,  and  through  their  eyes  I  am  seeing  myself  and 
others  like  me — seeing  much  and  many  things 
from  an  angle  never  used  before. 

They  nodded  to  me  less  hesitatingly  as  the 
days  went  by,  and  at  the  noon  hour,  when  I  have 
my  lunch  with  first  one  group  and  then  another, 
I  find  them,  on  the  whole,  frank  and  outspoken, 
find  they  have  as  decided  opinions  concerning 
what  they  term  people  like  that — which  term  is 
usually  accompanied  by  a  gesture  in  the  direction 
where  I  once  lived — as  said  people  have  concern- 
ing them,  to  whom,  as  a  rule,  they  also  refer  in 
much  the  same  manner  and  with  the  same  words. 
With  each  group  on  either  side  of  its  separating 
gulf  the  conviction  is  firm  that  little  is  to  be  hoped 
for  or  expected  from  the  other,  and  common 
qualities  are  forgotten  in  the  realization  of  dis- 
tinctive differences. 

"What's  the  most  you  ever  made  a  week?" 
The  girl  who  asked  the  question  moved  up  for  me 

79 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

to  sit  on  the  bench  beside  her,  and,  unwrapping  a 
newspaper  parcel,  took  from  it  a  large  cucumber 
pickle,  a  piece  of  cheese,  a  couple  of  biscuits,  and 
half  of  a  cocoanut  pie,  and  laid  them  on  a  table  in 
front  of  her.  "Help  yourself."  She  pushed  the 
paper  serving  as  tray  and  cloth  toward  me.  "I 
ain't  had  much  appetite  lately.  Hello,  Mamie! 
Come  over  here  and  sit  on  our  bench.  What  you 
got  good  for  lunch?  My  stomach's  turned  back 
on  pie.  I'd  give  ten  cents  for  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"Everywhere  else  but  this  old  hothouse  sells  it 
for  two  cents  a  cup  without,  and  three  cents  with." 
The  girl  called  Mamie  nodded  to  me  and  took  her 
seat  on  the  bench.  "I  don't  like  milk  nohow, 
and  I'd  give  the  money  glad  for  something  hot  in 
the  middle  of  the  day.  Don't  nothing  do  your  in- 
sides  as  much  good  as  something  piping  hot.  Say 
— I  saw  Barker  last  night. ' '  Her  voice  lowered  but 
little.  "He  and  I  are  going  to  see  'Some  Girl'  at 
the  Bijou  next  week.  It's  all  make-up — his  being 
sweet  on  Ceeley  Bayne!  That  knock-kneed,  slew- 
footed,  pop-eyed  Grade  Jones  got  that  off.  I'm 
going  to  get  one  them  lace-and-chiffon  waists  at 
Plum's  for  $2.98  if  don't  nobody  get  sick  and  need 
medicine  between  now  and  Wednesday.  Seems 
like  somebody's  always  sick  at  our  house." 

The  question  asked  me  had  been  forgotten,  and, 
glad  to  escape  the  acknowledgment  that  I  had 

80 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

never  earned  a  dollar  in  my  life,  I  got  up  on  the 
plea  that  I  must  see  a  girl  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  walked  across  it.  As  I  went  I  scanned 
each  face  I  saw.  Consciously  or  subconsciously  I 
had  been  hoping  for  days  that  I  would  see  a  face 
which  ever  haunts  me,  a  face  I  wanted  to  forget 
and  could  not  forget.  Everywhere  I  go,  in  fac- 
tories or  mills  or  shops  or  homes ;  in  the  streets,  and 
at  my  windows,  I  am  always  wondering  if  I  shall 
see  her.  She  was  very  unhappy.  Who  is  she? 
Why  was  Selwyn  with  her?  It  is  my  last  thought 
at  night,  my  first  in  the  morning. 

Yesterday  I  was  at  the  box-factory  where 
Jimmy  Gibbons  works.  It  is  his  last  week  there. 
On  the  fifteenth  he  starts  again  to  school.  Know- 
ing the  president  of  the  company  well,  I  asked 
that  Jimmy  should  be  my  guide  through  the 
various  departments,  and  permission  was  given. 
I  wish  Jimmy  were  mine. 

"Miss  High-Spy  'ain't  got  any  love  for  on- 
lookers, and  we'd  better  not  stay  in  here  long." 
Jimmy's  voice  was  cautious,  but  his  eyes  merry, 
and,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the  sour  and 
snappy  person  watching  each  movement  of  each 
worker,  I  agreed  with  him  that  it  was  not  well  to 
linger.  The  room  was  big  and  bare,  its  benches 
filled  with  white-faced  workers,  and  the  autocrat 
who  presided  over  it  seemed  unconscious  of  its 

81 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

stifling,  steamy  heat  and  sickening  smells  of  glue 
and  paste.  Going  out  into  the  hall,  Jimmy  and  I 
went  to  a  window,  opened  it,  and  gave  our  lungs 
a  bath. 

"What  does  she  do  it  for?  Is  she  crazy?" 
"Not  asylum-crazy — mean-crazy."  Jimmy's 
head  nodded  first  negatively,  then  with  affirma- 
tion. "She's  come  up  from  the  beginning  place, 
and  used  to  be  a  fire-eater  before  she  got  to  be 
boss  of  our  bunch,  and  the  men  say  people  like 
that,  people  who  ain't  used  to  driving,  drive  harder 
than  any  other  kind  when  they  get  the  chance. 
She's  a  bully  to  the  under  ones,  but  the  uppers — 
Jimmy's  eyes  were  lifted  to  mine  and  his  lips  made 
a  whistling  sound.  "If  Mr.  Pritchard  kicked  her 
in  the  face,  she'd  lick  the  soles  of  his  shoes  when 
he  was  doing  it,  if  she  could.  She  wants  to  be  boss 
of  the  room  up-stairs  and  Mr.  Pritchard  can  put 
her  where  he  pleases.  If  he  don't  do  it,  he'd 
better,  the  women  say,  'count  of  her  knowing  more 
about  him  than  he  knows  she  knows.  I  don't  know 
what  'tis,  but  I  hate  her.  All  of  us  hate  her." 

"Why  doesn't  some  one  speak  to  Mr.  Johns? 
Certainly  he  can't  know — " 

Yes  'm,  he  does.  Joe  Dickson  and  Bob  Beazley 
told  him  once,  and  the  next  week  they  got  a  hand- 
out. High-Spy  made  Mr.  Pritchard  do  it.  Mr. 
Johns  leaves  those  kinds  of  things  to  him.  Swell 

82 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

folks  like  him  'ain't  got  time  to  look  after  folks 
like  us.     He's  awful  rich,  ain't  he?" 

"He  isn't  poor.  When  are  you  going  to  have 
your  lunch?"  I  looked  at  my  watch.  "Can't  you 
go  out  and  have  it  with  me?  I'll  ask  Mr.  Johns. 
Come  on,  quick.  I'll  see  the  other  rooms  when  I 
come  back." 

Jimmy  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  go.  I  ain't 
being  docked  'count  of  being  with  you,  because 
Mr.  Pritchard  sent  me,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me 
come  back  if  I  went  out.  I  been  sent  down  to  him 
once  to-day,  and  please  'm  don't  ask  him,  please  'm 
don't!" 

In  Jimmy's  voice  was  something  of  terror,  and 
his  hands  slipped  in  and  out  of  his  trousers 'pockets 
with  nervous,  frightened  movements.  His  usually 
merry  little  mouth  with  its  pale  lips  quivered 
oddly,  and  in  his  eyes,  as  he  turned  away,  were 
tears  I  could  not  understand. 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  lifted  his  face 
to  mine.  "What  is  it,  Jimmy?  What  has  hap- 
pened that  you  don't  want  me  to  ask  Mr.  Johns 
to  tell  Mr.  Pritchard  you  can  go  with  me?  Why 
are  you  afraid?" 

"I  ain't  afraid.  Yes  'm,  I  am.  I — I've  been 
docked  once  to-day.  Please  'm  don't  ask  Mr. 
Pritchard  nothing!  High-Spy  makes  him  punish 
me  whenever — " 

83 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"Punish  you!"  I  straightened  indignantly. 
"Why  does  he  punish  you?  What  right— 

"I  don't  mean  licking.  But  he  keeps  me  out 
of  the  room  when  I'm  sent  out,  and  docks  me  at 
the  end  of  the  week.  Mother  needs  every  cent. 
She's  back  in  the  rent.  I  was  sent  out  to-day." 

"But  why?    What  were  you  doing?" 

"Nothing — leastways  I  didn't  mean  to.  There 
wasn't  none  of  us  sick  this  morning,  and  Billy 
Coons  was  acting  clown  behind  High-Spy's  back, 
and  I  tried  not  to  laugh.  She  don't  let  us  laugh. 
But  she  said  I  did.  I  didn't  laugh —  '  Jimmy's 
voice  was  protesting.  "I  just  smiled  and  it — it 
busted." 

"Is  that  why  she  made  you  go  out  of  the  room?" 
I  turned  away  and  looked  out  of  the  window  lest 
the  accident  to  Jimmy's  smile  be  mine.  "Is  that 
why  she  sent  you  out?" 

He  nodded.  "Mr.  Pritchard  kept  me  out  an 
hour.  Sometimes  he  lets  me  make  it  up  at  lunch. 
I  was  going  to  ask  him  to  let  me  to-day,  but — 

"I'm  preventing.  I'm  glad  of  it!  When  are 
you  going  to  eat  your  lunch?" 

"I've  done  et  it —  Jimmy's  tongue  moistened 
his  lips.  "I  et  it  on  my  way  here  this  morning. 
I  got  paid  off  last  night  and  I  took  out  five  cents 
and  gave  the  rest  to  mother,  and  this  morning  I 
bought  a  pie  with  it  and  et  up  every  bite.  It 

84 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

might  have  been  hooked  when  I  was  out  the 
room,  so  I'm  glad  I  didn't  save  none.  I  got  it  at 
Heck's.  He  keeps  the  best  pies  in  town  for  five 
cents.  They're  real  fat." 

I  was  paying  little  attention  to  Jimmy.  At  the 
open  window  I  could  see  a  young  girl  across  the 
street  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  She  had  brought 
it  from  a  small  frame  house  with  high  steps  leading 
to  a  sagging  porch,  in  the  door  of  which  a  large 
and  kindly-faced  woman  was  standing,  arms  folded 
and  eyes  watching  the  movements  of  the  girl.  As 
the  latter  lifted  her  head,  on  which  was  no  hat,  I 
leaned  forward,  my  heart  in  my  throat.  The  odd, 
eager  young  face,  the  boyish  arrangement  of  the 
hair  above  it,  the  quick,  bird-like  movements  of 
the  slender  body,  had  burned  for  days  and  nights 
in  my  brain,  and  I  recognized  her  at  once. 

"Jimmy,"  I  said,  "come  here."  I  drew  him  to 
the  window  with  nervous  haste,  my  fingers  twitch- 
ing, my  breath  unsteady.  "Who  is  that  girl  with 
the  baby?  There  she  is,  turning  the  corner. 
Look  quick!  Do  you  know  her?" 

Jimmy  shook  his  head.  ' '  Never  saw  her.  Can't 
see  her  now."  He  leaned  far  out  the  window,  but 
the  girl  had  disappeared,  and  the  woman  in  the 
doorway  had  gone  in  and  closed  the  door. 

I  must  have  said  something,  made  some  sort  of 
sound,  for  Jimmy,  turning  from  the  window, 

85 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

looked  at  me  uneasily,  in  his  eyes  distress  and  un- 
derstanding. 

' '  What's  the  matter,  Miss  Heath  ?  You'd  better 
sit  down.  Did  the  heat  make  you  sick?  You're — 
you're  whiter  than  that  wall." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  SICKNESS  which  Jimmy  could  not  under- 
**•  stand  was  indeed  upon  me,  and  unsteadily  I 
leaned  against  the  window-frame,  looking  at,  but 
not  seeing,  him,  and  not  until  he  spoke  again  did 
I  remember  I  was  not  alone. 

"Is  it  very  bad?  You  look  as  if  it  hurts  so. 
Wait  a  minute — I'll  get  you  some  water." 

I  caught  him  as  he  started  to  run  down  the  hall, 
and  drew  him  back.  "I  don't  want  any  water. 
I  am  not  sick."  My  head  went  up.  "The  smell 
of  paste  would  make  me  ill  if  I  stayed,  however, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  stay  to-day.  I'll  come  some 
other  time.  Run  on  and  join  the  other  boys. 
Tell  your  mother" —  I  seemed  groping  for  words — 
"tell  your  mother  I  will  see  her  before  you  start  to 
school.  Run  on,  Jimmy,  and  thank  Mr.  Pritchard 
for  lending  you  to  me.  And  laugh  as  much  as  you 
want  to,  Jimmy.  Laugh  all  you  can  before — 
you  can't!" 

Over  the  banister  the  child  was  leaning  anx- 
iously, watching  me  as  I  stumbled  down  the  steps. 

87 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

At  their  foot  I  turned  and  waved  my  hand  and 
laughed,  an  odd,  faint,  far-away  laugh  that  seemed 
to  come  from  some  one  else ;  and  then  I  went  into 
the  street  and  found  myself  crossing  it,  impelled 
by  surging  impulse  to  know — 

To  know  what?  At  the  foot  of  the  rickety 
stairs  leading  to  the  high  porch  from  which  I  had 
seen  the  girl  come  I  stopped.  All  I  had  been  re- 
pressing, fighting,  resisting  for  days  past,  had  in 
a  moment  yielded  to  horror,  and  hurt  that  seemed 
past  healing,  and  I  was  surrendering  to  what  I 
should  know  was  impossible.  I  must  be  mad! 

With  a  shudder  that  was  half  a  sob  I  turned 
away  and  walked  down  the  street  and  into  the 
one  which  would  lead  to  Scarborough  Square.  As 
I  walked  my  shoulders  straightened.  What  was 
the  matter  with  me  ?  Was  I  becoming  that  which 
I  loathed — a  suspicious,  spying  person?  I  was 
insulting  Selwyn.  He  knew  I  hated  mystery, 
however,  knew  the  right  of  explanation  was  mine, 
knew  that  I  expected  of  any  man  who  was  my 
friend  that  his  life  should  be  as  open  as  my  life.  If 
I  had  hurt  him,  angered  him  by  my  question  when 
I  last  saw  him,  he  had  hurt,  had  angered  me  far 
more.  For  now  I  was  angry.  Did  he  imagine  I 
was  the  sort  of  woman  who  accepted  reticence 
with  resignation  ?  I  was  not. 

At  the  corner  Mr.  Fogg  was  standing  in  the 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

door  of  his  little  shop,  holding  a  blue  bottle  up  to 
the  light  and  examining  it  with  critical  care.  He 
had  on  his  usual  clothes  of  many  colors,  shabby 
from  much  wearing,  but  in  his  round,  clean-shaven 
face,  pink  with  health  and  inward  cheer,  was 
smiling  serenity,  and  in  his  eyes  a  twinkle  that 
yielded  not  to  time  or  circumstance.  His  second- 
hand bookshelf,  his  canary-birds  and  white 
rabbits,  his  fox-terriers  and  goldfish  are  friends 
that  never  fail,  and  in  them  he  has  found  content. 
His  eagerness  to  chat  occasionally  with  some  one 
who  cares,  as  he  cares,  for  his  beloved  books,  is 
not  at  times  to  be  resisted,  but  I  was  in  no  mood 
to  talk  to-day.  I  wondered  if  I  could  hurry  by. 

"Good  morning!"  The  blue  bottle,  half  filled 
with  water,  in  which  a  tiny  bulb  was  floating,  was 
waved  toward  me,  and  a  shaggy  white  head  nodded 
at  me.  "It's  a  fine  day,  ain't  it? — a  fine  day  for 
snow.  Good  and  gray.  I  think  we'll  have  some 
flakes  before  night.  Kinder  feel  like  a  boy  again 
when  it's  snowing.  I  don't  know  yet  which  season 
I  like  best.  Every  one  has  got  its  glory.  What 
you  been  up  to  to-day  ?  Seeing  some  more  things  ? ' ' 

I  nodded.  "I  wish  I  could  come  in,  but  I  can't." 
I  shivered,  though  I  was  not  cold.  "I  am  going 
up-town."  A  minute  before  I  had  no  intention 
of  going  up-town,  but  to  go  indoors  was  suddenly 
impossible.  Whatever  was  possessing  me  must  be 

89 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

fought  off  alone.  "I  will  bring  you  my  copy  of 
Men  and  Nations  to-morrow.  Keep  it  as  long  as 
you  wish." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  Thank  you  hearty.  I'll 
take  good  care  of  it.  I  suppose  you  haven't  heard 
of  the  widow  Robb  ?  Her  name's  Patty,  you  know, 
and  she's  got  a  beau.  He's  named  Cake.  Luck 
plays  tricks  with  love,  don't  it?  Don't  get  caught 
in  a  snow-storm.  You  ain't " — his  voice  was 
anxious — "you  ain't  thinking  of  leaving  us,  are 
you?  The  girls  down  here  are  needing  of  you, 
needing  sore.  All  of  us  are  needing  of  you." 

I  shook  my  head.  "Of  course  I'm  not  thinking 
of  leaving  you."  I  waved  my  hand  in  response  to 
his  wave  of  the  bottle,  and,  not  seeing  where  I 
went,  I  turned  the  corner  and,  head  bent  to  keep 
out  of  my  face  the  tiny  particles  of  sleet  and  snow 
beginning  to  fall,  walked  for  some  distance  before 
noticing  where  I  was. 

Much  of  my  city,  unknown  to  me  a  short  while 
ago,  was  now  familiar,  but  to  much  I  was  still  a 
stranger,  and  presently  I  was  wondering  concern- 
ing the  occupants  of  the  houses  I  was  passing. 
The  shabby  gentility  and  dull  respectability  of  the 
latter  was  depressing,  and  to  escape  the  radiation 
of  their  dreariness  I  turned  into  first  one  street 
and  then  another,  and  as  I  walked  the  girl  with 
the  boyish  face  walked  with  me,  the  face  with  its 

90 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

hunted  fear.  She  had  held  the  baby  as  if  fright- 
ened, and  when  she  turned  the  corner  she  was 
running.  She  was  so  young.  Could  the  baby  be 
hers?  It  must  be  hers.  Nothing  but  a  mother- 
face  could  have  in  it  what  hers  had.  Why  was 
she  afraid,  and  of  what  ? 

The  streets  were  becoming  rough  and  unpaved 
before  I  noticed  I  was  nearing  the  city  limits,  and, 
cutting  across  a  field,  I  got  into  the  Avenue,  toward 
the  end  of  which  was  Selwyn's  house.  As  I  neared 
it  my  steps  slowed.  For  years  the  Thorne  prop- 
erty had  been  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  but 
progress  had  taken  it  in,  and  already  houses,  fla- 
grantly modern  and  architecturally  shameless,  of- 
fered strong  contrast  to  its  perfect  lines,  its  con- 
scious dignity,  its  calm  aloofness,  and  its  stone 
walls  which  shielded  it  from  gaping  gaze  and  gave 
it  privacy.  The  iron  gates  were  closed,  the  shut- 
ters drawn,  and  from  the  place  stillness  that  was 
oppressive  radiated,  a  stillness  that  was  ominous. 

Pride  was  undoubtedly  Selwyn's  dominating 
characteristic.  Pride  in  his  name,  in  its  unstained 
honor,  in  the  heritage  of  his  fathers;  and  in  the 
presence  of  his  house  it  seemed  an  ugly  dream — 
the  picture  ever  in  my  mind,  the  picture  of  Selwyn 
walking  slowly  with  a  young  girl  in  the  dark  of  a 
winter  afternoon  in  a  section  of  the  city  as  removed 
from  his  as  sunlight  is  removed  from  shadow.  In 

91 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

his  nature  was  nothing  that  could  make  such  asso- 
ciation imaginable.  If  no  higher  deterrent  pre- 
vented, pride  would  protect  him  from  doubtful 
situations.  He  was  sensitive  to  higher  deterrents, 
however,  as  sensitive  as  I. 

Passing  the  gates,  on  the  stone  columns  of  which 
the  quaint,  old-fashioned  lamps  of  former  days 
were  still  nightly  lighted,  I  glanced  through  them 
at  the  snow-covered  lawn  and  the  square-built, 
lonely  house,  occupied  now  only  by  Selwyn  and 
his  younger  brother  Harrie,  then  again  hurried  on. 
The  Avenue  with  its  great  width  and  unbroken 
length,  its  crystal-coated  trees  and  handsome 
houses,  was  now  deserted  save  for  hurrying  lim- 
ousines and  an  occasional  pedestrian;  and  safe  in 
the  fierceness  of  the  snow,  from  encounter  with  old 
friends,  I  decided  to  walk  home  through  the  sec- 
tion of  the  city  which  was  the  only  part  I  once 
knew  well,  and  just  as  I  decided  I  knocked  into 
some  one  turning  a  corner  as  I  approached  it. 

"Oh,MissHeath!"  The  woman  drewback.  "The 
snow  was  so  thick  I  didn't  see  you.  Did  I  hurt  you  ?" 

"Not  a  bit."  I  wiped  my  face,  damp  with 
melted  flakes  which  had  brushed  it.  "What  are 
you  doing  up  here?  You  look  as  frozen  as  I  feel. 
Have  you  got  on  overshoes?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "I  haven't  got 
any.  I  wouldn't  have  come  out,  but  I  had  to  bring 

92 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

some  work  back  to  Mrs.  Le  Moyne.  If  she'd  paid 
me  I'd  have  bought  a  pair  of  rubbers.  But  she 
didn't  pay  me.  She  said  she'd  let  me  have  the 
money  next  week." 

"Next  week!  You  need  it  this  minute.  How 
much  does  she  owe  you?" 

"Four  seventy-five  for  these  last  things,  and 
four  twenty-five  for  those  I  made  last  week.  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do."  The  woman's 
hands,  cold  and  stiff,  twisted  nervously.  "I  don't 
reckon  she's  ever  had  to  think  about  rent,  or  food, 
or  fuel,  or  overshoes.  People  like  that  don't  have 
to.  I  wish  they  did,  sometimes." 

"  So  do  I.  Come  on ;  it's  too  cold  to  stop.  We'll 
go  down  to  Benson's  and  get  something  hot  to  warm 
us  up.  I  forgot  about  lunch.  Turn  your  coat-collar 
up — the  snow  is  getting  down  your  neck — and 
take  my  muff.  I've  got  pockets  and  you  haven't." 

As  we  started  off  a  large  limousine  with  violets 
in  the  glass  vases  of  its  interior,  upholstered  in 
fawn-colored  cloth,  stopped  just  ahead  of  us,  and 
a  woman  I  did  not  know  got  out  of  it,  followed  by 
one  I  knew  well.  Fur  coats  entirely  covered  their 
dresses,  and  quickly  the  chauffeur  opened  an 
umbrella  to  protect  their  hats.  As  we  passed  I 
started  to  speak  to  Alice  Herbert,  but,  turning 
her  head,  she  gave  me  not  even  a  blink  of  recogni- 
tion. At  first  I  did  not  understand ;  then  I  laughed. 
7  93 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"Who  is  that?"  Mrs.  Beck's  voice  was  awed. 
"Ain't  they  grand?  Do  you  know  them?" 

"No."  I  put  my  hands  in  the  pockets  of  my 
long  coat.  ' '  I  used  to  know  one  of  them,  the  feeble- 
minded one.  We'd  better  go  over  to  High  Street 
and  take  a  car  to  Benson's.  The  storm's  getting 
worse.  We'll  have  to  hurry." 

The  street  lamps  were  being  lighted  as  we 
reached  Scarborough  Square,  and  at  sight  of  the 
house,  in  the  doorway  of  which  Mrs.  Mundy  was 
standing,  I  hurried,  impelled  by  impulse  beyond 
defining.  Mrs.  Beck  had  left  me  at  the  corner,  and 
as  Mrs.  Mundy  closed  the  door  behind  me  she 
followed  me  up  the  steps. 

"I've  been  that  worried  about  you  I  couldn't 
set  still  long  at  a  time,  and  Bettina's  been  up 
three  times  to  see  that  your  fire  was  burning  all 
right.  I  knew  you  didn't  have  your  umbrella  or 
overshoes.  It's  a  wonder  you  ain't  froze  stiff. 
I'll  bring  your  tea  right  up." 

"I've  had  tea,  thank  you."  I  held  out  first  one 
foot  and  then  the  other  to  the  blazing  coals,  and 
from  the  soles  of  my  shoes  came  curling  steam. 
"It's  a  wonderful  storm.  I'd  like  to  walk  ten 
miles  in  it.  I  don't  know  why  you  were  worried. 
I'm  all  right." 

"I  know  you  are,  but" — she  poked  the  fire — 
94 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"but  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  so  hard.  For  near 
two  weeks  you  haven't  stopped  a  minute.  You 
can't  stand  going  like  that.  I  wish  I'd  known 
where  to  find  you.  Mr.  Thome  was  here  this 
afternoon.  He  was  very  anxious  to  see  you." 

"Mr.  who?"  I  turned  sharply,  then  put  my 
hands  behind  me  to  hide  their  sudden  twisting. 
I  was  cold  and  tired,  and  the  only  human  being 
in  all  the  world  I  wanted  to  see  was  Selwyn.  It 
was  intolerable,  this  tormenting  something  that 
was  separating  us.  "When  was  he  here?"  I 
asked,  and  leaned  against  the  mantel. 

"He  came  about  three,  but  he  waited  half  an 
hour.  He  didn't  say  much,  but  he  was  powerful 
put  out  about  your  not  being  home.  He  couldn't 
wait  any  longer,  as  he  had  to  catch  a  train — the 
four- thirty,  I  think." 

"Where  was  he  going?"  I  sat  down  in  the  big 
wing-chair  and  the  fingers  of  my  hands  interlaced. 
"Did  he  say  where  he  was  going?" 

"He  didn't  mention  the  place,  just  said  he  had 
to  go  away  and  might  be  gone  some  time.  He'll 
write,  I  reckon.  He  was  awful  disappointed  at 
not  seeing  you.  He  asked  me — "  Mrs.  Mundy, 
on  her  knees,  unbuttoned  my  shoes  and  drew  them 
off.  "Your  feet  are  near  'bout  frozen,  and  no- 
wonder.  Your  stockings  are  wet  clean  through, 
and  I'm  letting  you  sit  here  in  them  when  I 

95 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

promised  him  I'd  see  you  didn't  kill  yourself 
doing  these  very  things.  You  just  put  your  feet 
on  the  fender  while  I  get  some  dry  clothes.  He 
says  to  me,  says  he :  '  Mrs.  Mundy,  the  one  human 
being  she  gives  no  thought  to  is  herself,  and  will  you 
please  take  care  of  her  ?  She  don't  understand ' ' 

"Oh,  I  do  understand!"  My  voice  was  wearily 
protesting.  "The  one  thing  men  don't  want 
women  to  do  is  to  understand.  They  want  us  to 
be  sweet  and  pretty — and  not  understand.  Selwyn 
talks  as  if  I  were  a  child.  I  am  perfectly  able  to 
take  care  of  myself." 

"Maybe  you  are,  but  you  don't  do  it — least- 
ways, not  always.  I  promised  him  I  wouldn't  let 
you  wear  yourself  out,  and  I  promised  him— 

"What?" 

"That  I  wouldn't  let  you  go  too  far.  He  says 
you've  lost  your  patience  with  people,  specially 
women,  who  think  it's  not  their  business  to  bother 
with  things  that — that  aren't  nice,  and  you're  apt  to 
go  to  the  other  extreme  and  forget  how  people  talk. ' ' 

"About  some  things  they  don't  talk  enough. 
Did — did  he  leave  any  message  for  me?" 

Again  Mrs.  Mundy  shook  her  head.  "I  think 
he  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  something  he 
couldn't  send  messages  about." 


CHAPTER  XII 

SELWYN  has  been  gone  two  weeks.     I  have 
heard  nothing  from  him.    I  do  not  even  know 
where  he  is. 

Yesterday,  over  the  telephone,  Kitty  reproached 
me  indignantly  for  not  coming  oftener  to  see  her. 
Each  week  I  try  to  take  lunch  or  dinner  with  her, 
but  there  have  been  weeks  when  I  could  not  see 
her,  when  I  could  not  get  away.  Scarborough 
Square  and  the  Avenue  are  not  mixable,  and  just 
now  Scarborough  Square  is  taking  all  my  time. 

Daily  new  demands  are  being  made  upon  me, 
new  opportunities  opening,  new  friendships  being 
formed,  and  though  my  new  friends  are  very  inter- 
esting to  me,  I  hardly  think  they  would  be  to 
Kitty.  I  rarely  speak  of  them  to  her. 

Miss  Hardy,  the  woman  labor  inspector  for  the 
state,  a  girl  who  had  worked  in  various  factories 
since  she  was  twelve  and  who  had  gotten  her  edu- 
cation at  a  night  school,  where  often  she  fell  asleep 
at  her  desk,  I  find  both  entertaining  and  instruct- 

97 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

ing,  but  Kitty  would  not  care  for  her.  She  wears 
spectacles,  and  Kitty  has  an  unyielding  antipathy 
for  women  who  wear  spectacles.  Neither  would 
she  care  for  Miss  Bayne,  another  state  employee, 
a  clever,  capable  woman  who  is  an  expert  in  her 
line.  It  is  her  business  to  discover  feeble- 
mindedness, to  test  school  children,  and  inmates 
of  institutions  to  which  they  have  been  sent,  or  of 
places  to  which  they  have  gone  because  of  inca- 
pacity or  delinquency  or  sin  of  any  sort;  and 
nothing  I  have  read  in  books  has  been  so  revealing 
concerning  conditions  that  exist  as  her  frank  state- 
ments simply  told. 

In  my  sitting-room  at  Scarborough  Square  she 
comes  in  frequently  for  tea  with  me,  and  meets 
there  Fannie  Harris,  the  teacher  of  an  open-air 
school  for  the  tuberculosis  children  of  our  neigh- 
borhood; and  Martha  White,  the  district  nurse 
for  our  particular  section ;  meets  Miss  Hay,  a  pro- 
bation officer  of  the  Juvenile  Court,  and  Loulie 
Hill,  a  girl  from  the  country  who  had  once  gone 
wrong,  and  who  is  now  trying  to  keep  straight  on 
five  dollars  a  week  made  in  the  sewing-room  of  one 
of  the  city's  hospitals.  Bettie  Flynn,  who  lives  at 
the  City  Home  because  of  epileptic  fits,  also  comes 
in  occasionally.  Bettie  is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Mundy. 
Owing  to  kinlessness  and  inability  to  care  for  her- 
self, owing,  also,  to  there  being  nowhere  else  to 

08 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

which  she  could  go,  she  has  been  forced  to  enter 
the  Home.  Her  caustic  comments  on  its  manage- 
ment are  of  a  clear-cut  variety.  Bettie  was  born 
for  a  satirist  and  became  an  epileptic.  The  result 
at  times  is  speech  that  is  not  guarded,  a  calling  of 
things  by  names  that  are  their  own. 

These  and  various  others  who  are  facing  at 
short  range  realities  of  which  I  have  long  been  per- 
sonally ignorant,  are  taking  me  into  new  worlds, 
pumping  streams  of  new  understandings,  new  out- 
reaches,  into  my  brain  and  heart,  and  life  has  be- 
come big  and  many-sided,  and  a  thing  not  to  be 
wasted.  Myself  of  the  old  life  I  am  seeing  as  I 
never  saw  before,  seeing  in  a  perspective  that 
does  not  fill  with  pride. 

Last  night  I  went  to  my  first  dinner-party  since 
Aunt  Matilda's  death.  In  Kitty's  car  I  watched 
with  interest,  on  the  way  to  her  house,  the  long 
stretches  of  dingy  streets,  then  cleaner  ones,  with 
their  old  and  comfortable  houses;  the  park,  with 
its  bare  trees  and  shrubs,  and  finally  the  Avenue, 
with  its  smooth  paving  and  pretentious  homes,  its 
hurrying  cars  of  luxurious  make,  its  air  of  con- 
scious smartness.  As  contrast  to  my  present 
home  it  interested  greatly. 

Kitty's  house  is  very  beautiful.  She  is  that 
rare  person  who  knows  she  does  not  know,  and  the 
house,  bought  for  her  by  her  father  as  a  wedding- 

99 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

gift,  she  had  put  in  the  hands  of  proper  authorities 
for  its  furnishings.  It  is  not  the  sort  of  home  I 
would  care  to  have,  but  it  is  undeniably  handsome, 
and  undoubtedly  Kitty  understands  the  art  of 
entertaining. 

Her  dinner-party  was  rather  a  large  one,  its 
honor  guest  an  English  writer  whose  books  are 
unendurably  dull;  but  any  sort  of  lion  is  helpful 
in  reducing  social  obligations,  and  for  that  purpose 
Kitty  had  captured  him.  She  insisted  on  my 
coming,  but  begged  me  not  to  mention  horrid 
things,  like  poor  people  and  politics  and  babies 
who  died  from  lack  of  intelligent  care,  but  to 
talk  books. 

"So  few  of  the  others  talk  books,  except  novels, 
and  he  thinks  most  modern  novels  rotten,"  she 
had  told  me  over  the  telephone.  ' '  So  please  come 
and  splash  out  something  about  these  foreign 
writers  whose  names  I  can't  remember.  Bergyson 
is  one,  I  believe,  and  Brerr  another,  and  France- 
Ana — Ana  something  France.  He's  a  man.  And 
there's  another  one.  Mater .  .  .  Yes,  that's  it.  Mae- 
terlinck. And  listen:  Wear  that  white  cr£pe  you 
wore  at  my  wedding;  it's  frightfully  plain,  but 
all  your  other  things  are  black.  I  don't  see 
why  you  still  wear  black.  Aunt  Matilda  hated 
it." 

As  I  went  up-stairs  to  take  off   my  wraps  I 

100 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

smiled  at  Kitty's  instructions.  In  her  room  she 
hastily  kissed  me. 

"Do  hurry  and  come  down.  I'm  so  afraid  he'll 
come  before  the  others,  and  I  might  have  to  talk 
to  him.  Literary  people  are  the  limit,  and  this 
one,  they  say,  is  the  worst  kind.  Billy  refuses  to 
leave  his  room  until  you  go  down ;  says  he'd  rather 
be  sent  to  jail  than  left  alone  with  him  ten  min- 
utes. He  met  him  at  the  club." 

Holding  me  off,  she  surveyed  me  critically. 
"You  look  very  well.  That's  a  good-looking 
dress.  It  suits  you.  I  believe  you  wear  pearls 
and  these  untrimmed  things  just  to  bring  out  your 
hair  and  eyes.  Nobody  but  you  could  do  it." 

Stopping  her  short,  quick  sentences,  she  leaned 
forward.  "There  he  is,  coming  up  the  steps  with 
Mr.  Alexander.  Come  on;  they're  inside.  We  can 
go  down  now.  By  the  way" — she  pinned  the 
orchids  at  her  waist  with  unnecessary  attention 

-"Selwyn  got  back  yesterday.  He  will  be  here 
to-night.  Dick  Moran  is  sick,  and  Selwyn  is 
taking  his  place.  At  first  he  declined  to  come. 
For  weeks  he's  been  going  nowhere,  but  he  finally 
promised.  Are  you  ready?" 

Without  looking  around  she  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  without  answering  her  I  followed. 
I  was  conscious  chiefly  of  a  desire  to  get  away,  to 
do  anything  but  meet  Selwyn  where  each  would 

101 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

have  to  play  a  part;  but  as  I  entered  Kitty's 
drawing-room  and  later  met  her  guests  I  crowded 
back  all  else  but  what  was  due  her,  spoke  in  turn 
to  each,  and  then  to  Selwyn,  as  if  between  us  there 
was  no  terrifying,  unbridged  gulf. 

Kitty's  dinners  are  perfect.  I  am  ever  amazed 
at  the  care  and  consideration  she  gives  to  their 
ordering.  In  art  and  letters  she  is  not  learned,  but 
she  is  an  expert  in  the  management  of  household 
affairs,  and  her  dinner  invitations  are  rarely 
declined. 

At  the  table,  with  its  lilacs  and  valley-lilies,  its 
soft  lights  and  perfect  appointments,  were  old 
friends  of  mine  and  new  acquaintances  of  hers, 
and  with  the  guest  of  honor  I  shared  their  curi- 
osity. Very  skilfully  Kitty  led  the  chatter  into 
channels  where  the  draught  was  light,  and  obedi- 
ently I  did  my  best  to  follow.  There  was  much 
talk,  but  no  conversation. 

"Oh,  Miss  Heath!"  A  young  girl  opposite  me 
leaned  forward.  "I've  been  so  crazy  to  meet  you. 
Some  one  told  me  that  you'd  gone  in  for  slums. 
It  must  be  so  entrancing!" 

I  looked  up.  For  a  second  Selwyn's  eyes  held 
mine  and  we  both  smiled,  but  before  I  could  speak 
Kitty's  lion  turned  toward  me. 

"Yes — I  heard  that,  too."  Fixing  his  black- 
rimmed  glasses  more  firmly  on  his  big  and  bulging 

102 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

nose,  Mr.  Garrott  looked  at  me  closely.  "In  my 
country  slumming  has  become  a  fad  with  a — a 
certain  type  of  restless  women  who  have  to  make 
their  living,  I  suppose.  But  I  wouldn't  fancy  you 
were — " 

"She  isn't." 

Jack  Peebles,  now  happily  married,  blinked  in 
my  direction,  signaled  me  to  say  nothing,  then 
turned  to  the  Englishman.  "Miss  Heath  can  do 
as  she  chooses,  being  Miss  Heath,  but  the  Turks 
are  right.  Women  ought  to  be  kept  behind  lat- 
ticed windows,  given  a  lute,  and  supplied  with 
veils,  and  if  they  ask  for  anything  else,  they  should 
be  taken  from  the  window." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you."  Mr.  Garrott  filled 
his  fork  with  mushrooms  and  raised  it  to  his 
mouth.  "The  Turks  carry  their  restraint  too  far. 
Women  should  have  more  liberty  than  is  given 
them  in  Turkey.  They  add  color  to  life,  add  to 
its—" 

' '  Uncertainties. ' '  Selwyn  made  effort  to  control 
the  smile  the  others  found  uncontrollable.  "In 
your  country,  now,  the  woman-question  is  inter- 
esting, exciting.  There  they  do  things,  smash 
things,  make  a  noise,  keep  you  guessing.  Over 
here  their  behavior  is  much  less  entertaining. 
Their  attitude  is  one  of  investigation  as  well  as 
demand.  They  have  developed  an  unreasonable 

103 


PEOPLE   LIKE    THAT 

desire  to  know  things;  know  why  they  are  as  they 
are;  why  they  should  continue  to  be  what  they 
have  been.  They  are  preparing  themselves  by 
first-hand  knowledge  and  information  to  tell  what 
most  of  us  do  not  want  to  hear." 

Selwyn's  eyes  again  for  a  moment  held  mine,  and 
in  my  face  I  felt  hot  color  creeping.  Never  before 
had  he  defended,  even  with  satire,  what  he  had 
told  me  a  hundred  times  was  folly  on  my  part. 
He  turned  to  Mr.  Garrott. 

"Why  on  earth  perfectly  comfortable,  suppos- 
edly Christian  human  beings  should  want  person- 
ally to  know  anything  about  uncomfortable,  unff , 
under-paid  ones— 

"Oh,  but  I  think  they  ought  to!"  Again  the 
pretty  little  creature  in  green  chiffon  nodded 
toward  me.  "But  you  won't  let  Miss  Heath  have 
a  chance  to  say  anything !  Some  one  told  me  such 
queer  people  came  to  see  her.  Factory-girls  and 
working-women  and — oh — all  sorts  of  people  like 
that.  Is  it  really  so,  Miss  Heath?" 

"Very  interesting  people  come  to  see  me. 
They  are  undoubtedly  of  different  sorts,  but  one 
of  the  illuminating  discoveries  of  life  is  that  human 
beings  are  amazingly  alike.  Veneering  is  a  great 
help,  of  course.  If  you  knew  my  friends  you 
would  find — " 

"I'd  love  to  know  them.  I  always  have  liked 
104 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

queer  people.  I've  been  crazy  to  come  and  see 
you,  but  mother  won't  let —  I  mean — " 

"Mrs.  Henderson  says  she  met  a  young  man 
when  she  went  to  see  you  who  was  the  cleverest 
person  she  ever  talked  to."  Gentle  Annie  Gaines 
was  venturing  to  come  to  my  help.  "He  seemed 
to  know  something  of  everything.  She  couldn't 
remember  his  name." 

"It's  difficult  to  remember.  He's  a  Russian 
Jew.  Schrioski,  is  his  name."  At  the  head  of  the 
table  I  felt  Kitty  squirm,  knew  she  was  twisting 
her  feet  in  fear  and  indignation.  I  turned  to  her 
English  guest. 

"I  have  another  friend  who  will  be  so  glad  to 
know  I  have  met  you,  Mr.  Garrott.  He  is  one  of 
your  most  intelligent  and  intense  admirers.  He 
has  read,  I  think,  everything  you've  written." 

Absorbed  in  his  salad,  evidently  new  and  to  his 
liking,  Mr.  Garrott  was  not  impressed  by,  or  ap- 
preciative of,  my  attempt  to  follow  Kitty's 
instructions.  With  any  reservations  of  my  bad 
taste  in  talking  shop  I  would  have  agreed,  still, 
something  was  due  Kitty.  "He  tells  me" — I 
refused  to  be  ignored — ' '  that  he  keeps  an  advance 
order  for  everything  you  write;  buys  your  books 
as  soon  as  they  are  published." 

"Buys  them!"  With  the  only  quick  movement 
he  had  made,  Mr.  Garrott  turned  to  me.  "I'd 

105 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

like  to  meet  him.  I'm  glad  to  know  there's  some- 
body in  America  who  buys  and  reads  my  books. 
Usually  those  who  buy  don't  read,  and  those  who 
read  don't  buy.  But  tell  me —  Again  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth  drooped,  and  again  his  spectacles 
were  adjusted.  "Why  did  you  go  in  for — for 
living  in  a  run-down  place  and  meeting  such  odds 
and  ends  as  they  say  you  meet?  You're  not  old 
enough  for  things  of  that  kind.  An  ugly  woman, 
uninteresting,  unprovided  for — she  might  take 
them  up."  He  stared  at  me  as  if  for  physical 
explanation  of  unreasonable  peculiarities.  "You 
believe,  I  fancy— 

"That  a  woman  is  capable  of  deciding  for  her- 
self what  she  wants  to  do." 

Again  Jack  Peebles 's  near-sighted  eyes  blinked 
at  me,  but  in  his  voice  there  was  no  longer  chaffing. 
"She  believes  even  more  remarkable  things  than 
that.  Believes  if  people,  all  sorts,  knew  one  another 
better,  understood  one  another  better,  there  would 
be  less  injustice,  less  indifference,  and  greater  friend- 
ship and  regard.  Rather  an  uncomfortable  creed 
for  those  who  don't  want  to  know,  who  prefer — 

"But  you  don't  expect  all  grades  of  people  to 
be  friends?  Surely  you  don't  expect — " 

I  smiled.  "No,  I  don't  expect.  So  far  I'm 
only  hoping  all  people  may,  some  day — be 
friendly." 

106 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Kitty  was  signaling  frantically  with  her  eyes, 
and  in  obedience  I  again  performed  as  requested, 
for  the  third  time  turned  to  Mr.  Garrott. 

"I  heard  a  most  interesting  discussion  the  other 
day  concerning  certain  present-day  French  writers. 
I  wonder  if  you  agree  with  Bernard  Shaw  that 
Brieux  is  the  greatest  dramatist  since  Molidre,  or 
if—" 

"I  never  agree  with  Bernard  Shaw." 

Mr.  Garrott  frowned,  and,  taking  up  his  wine- 
glass, drained  it.  Putting  it  down,  he  again  stared 
at  me.  "I  don't  understand  you.  You  don't 
look  at  all  as  I  imagined  you  would." 

At  the  foot  of  the  table  Billy  was  insisting  upon 
the  superiority  of  the  links  of  the  Hawthorne  to 
those  of  the  Essex  club,  and  Kitty,  at  her  end, 
was  giving  a  lively  account  of  a  wedding-party  she 
had  come  across  at  the  station  the  evening  before 
when  seeing  a  friend  off  for  her  annual  trip  South, 
and  at  first  one  and  then  the  other  Mr.  Garrott 
looked,  as  if  not  comprehending  why,  when  he 
wished  to  speak,  there  should  be  chatter.  •  Later, 
when  again  we  were  in  the  drawing-room,  he  con- 
tinued to  eye  me  speculatively,  but  he  was  per- 
mitted no  opportunity  to  add  to  his  inquiries;  and 
when  at  last  he  was  gone  Kitty  sat  down,  limp 
and  worn  at  the  strain  she  had  been  forced  to 
endure. 

107 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"What  business  is  it  of  his  how  you  live  and 
what  you  do?"  she  said,  indignantly.  "He's  an 
old  teapot,  but  you  see  now  what  I  mean.  I'm 
always  having  to  explain  you,  to  tell — " 

"Don't  do  it.  I'll  forgive  much,  but  not  ex- 
plaining. Your  lion  doesn't  roar  well,  still,  a  lion 
is  worth  seeing — once."  I  turned  to  Selwyn. 
"I  beg  your  pardon.  Did  you  speak  to  me?" 

"I  asked  if  I  could  take  you  to  Scarborough 
Square.  I  have  a  taxi  here." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  am  spending  the  night  with 
Kitty.  I  am  not  going  back." 

In  astonishment  Kitty  looked  at  me,  then  turned 
away.  I  had  told  her  I  could  not  stay.  I  had  not 
intended  to  stay,  but  I  could  not  talk  to  Selwyn 
to-night.  There  would  not  be  time  and  there  was 
too  much  I  wanted  to  say. 

Selwyn 's  shoulders  made  shrug  that  was  barely 
perceptible,  and  without  offering  his  hand  he 
said  good  night.  In  the  hall  I  heard  him  speak  to 
Kitty,  then  the  closing  of  the  door  and  the  start- 
ing of  the  taxi,  then  silence. 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  at  last  I  slept. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

T  HAVE  not  seen  Selwyn  since  the  night  of 
*  Kitty's  dinner-party.  He  has  been  back  three 
days.  If  he  wished  to  see  me  before  he  went  away, 
why  does  he  not  come  to  see  me  now?  Daily  I 
determine  I  will  let  no  thought  of  him  come  into 
my  mind.  The  purposes  for  which  I  came  to  Scar- 
borough Square  will  be  defeated  if  I  continue  to 
think  of  this  unimaginable  happening  that  is  with 
me  day  and  night,  this  peculiar  behavior  of  which 
he  makes  no  explanation.  I  determine  not  to 
think,  and  thought  is  ever  with  me. 

I  was  silly,  foolish,  quixotic  to  hope  that  here, 
in  this  little  world  of  workaday  people,  he  might 
be  brought  to  see  that  personal  acquisition  and 
advance  is  not  enough  to  give  life  meaning,  to 
justify  what  it  exacts.  I  was  foolish.  We  are 
more  apart  than  when  I  came. 

Mrs.  Mundy,  in  her  blue  cotton  dress,  a  band 
of  embroidery  in  the  neck  of  its  close-fitting  basque, 
and  around  her  waist  a  long,  white  apron  which 
8  109 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

reached  beyond  her  ample  hips  to  the  middle  of 
her  back,  lingered  this  morning,  dust-cloth  in  hand, 
at  the  door  of  my  sitting-room.  There  was  some- 
thing else  she  wanted  to  say. 

"I'm  mighty  'fraid  little  Gertie  Archer  is  going 
to  have  what  we  used  to  call  a  galloping  case." 
She  went  over  to  the  window,  where  she  felt  the 
earth  in  its  flower-box  to  see  if  it  were  moist. 
"She's  a  pretty  child,  and  she  was  terrible  anx- 
ious to  go  to  one  of  them  open-air  schools  on  the 
roof,  but  there  wasn't  any  room.  It's  too  late 
now." 

The  upper  ends  of  the  dust-cloth  were  fitted 
together  carefully,  and,  leaving  the  window,  Mrs. 
Mundy  went  over  to  the  door.  "Do  you  reckon 
the  women  know,  the  women  where  you  come 
from?  And  the  other  women,  the  rich,  and  the 
comfortable,  and  the  plain  ones  who  could  help, 
too,  if  they  were  shown  how — do  you  reckon 
they  know?" 

I  looked  up  from  the  table  where  I  had  been 
straightening  some  magazines.  "Know  what?" 

"About  there  not  being  schools  enough  for  the 
children,  and  about  boys  and  girls  going  wrong 
because  of  not  being  shown  how  to  go  right,  and 
about—" 

Mrs.  Mundy  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  the  door. 
"Another  thing  I  want  to  ask  you  is  this:  How 

no 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

did  it  come  about  that  some  men  and  women  have 
found  out  they've  got  to  know,  and  they've  got 
to  care,  and  they've  got  to  help  with  things  they 
didn't  use  to  help  with;  and  some  'ain't  heard  a 
sound,  'ain't  seen  a  thing  of  what's  going  on 
around  them? 

"Some  people  like  being  deaf  and  blind.  But 
most  people  are  willing  to  do  their  part  if  they 
only  understand  it.  The  trouble  is  in  knowing 
how  to  go  about  things  in  the  right  way — the  wise 
way.  Women  have  had  to  stumble  so  long — 

' '  They're  natural  stumblers — women  are.  That 
is,  some  of  'em.  They're  afraid  to  look  where 
they're  going.  I  don't  like  to  lose  heart  in  any- 
thing human,  but  I  get  low  down  in  spirit  when 
I  see  how  don't-care  so  many  women  are.  They're 
blind  as  bats  when  they  don't  want  to  see,  and 
they've  got  a  mighty  satisfying  way  of  soothing 
of  themselves  by  saying  some  things  ain't  their 
business.  That's  devil's  dope.  Generally  women 
who  talk  that  way  are  the  ones  who  call  the  most 
attention  to  the  faults  and  failings  of  men.  Con- 
sidering men  are  men,  I  think  they  do  wonderful. 
Mr.  Guard  says  if  women  keep  silent  much  longer 
the  very  stones  will  cry  out." 

' '  Mr.  Guard  ?  Is  he  the  one  you  call  the  people's 
preacher?"  , 

Mrs.  Mundy  nodded.  "He  preaches  to  them 
in 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

what  won't  go  in  a  church.  I  reckon  you've  seen 
something  about  him  in  the  papers.  He  used  to 
have  a  church  in  a  big  city,  but  he  gave  it  up. 
I  don't  think  he  thinks  like  the  churches  think, 
exactly,  but  he  don't  have  any  call  to  mention 
creeds  and  doctrines  down  here,  and  he  just  asks 
people  plain  out  what  kind  of  life  they're  living, 
not  what  they  believe.  I've  been  wanting  for  a 
long  time  for  you-all  to  know  each  other." 

"I'd  like  very  much  to  know  him.  Ask  him  to 
come  to  see  me." 

"He  don't  go  to  see  people  unless  they  need 
him.  I've  been  wanting  him  for  weeks  to  come  to 
supper  with  Bettina  and  me,  but  he's  that  busy 
he  hasn't  had  a  night  free  to  do  it.  When  he 
does  have  one,  would  you  mind  coming  down  and 
taking  supper  with  us  instead  of  my  sending  yours 
up  as  usual?  I'd  be  awful  proud  to  have  you." 

"Of  course  I'll  come.  I'd  love  to.  Can't  you 
get  him  for  Friday  evening?  I  have  no  engage- 
ment for  Friday — " 

"It's  this  minute  I'll  try."  Mrs.  Mundy  got  up 
with  activity.  "You  two  were  meant  to  know 
each  other.  Both  of  you  have  your  own  way  of 
doing  things,  and  you'll  have  a  lot  to  talk  about. 
You'll  like  him  and  he'll  like  you.  I'll  let  you 
know  if  he  can  come  as  soon  as  I  find  out." 
Closing  the  door  behind  her,  she  left  me  alone. 

112 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

Taking  the  morning  paper  to  the  window,  I 
drew  my  chair  close  to  it,  pushing  back  the  cur- 
tains that  I  might  have  all  possible  light  as  I  read. 
It  was  again  snowing,  and  the  grayness  of  the  sky 
and  atmosphere  was  reflected  in  the  room,  not- 
withstanding the  leaping  flames  of  the  open  fire, 
and  after  a  while  I  put  the  paper  aside  and  looked 
out  of  the  window. 

Each  twig  and  branch  of  the  trees  and  shrubs 
of  the  snow-covered  Square  was  bent  and  twisted 
in  fantastic  shape  by  its  coating  of  sleet,  and  the 
usual  shabbiness  of  the  little  park  was  glorified 
with  shining  wonder;  and  under  its  spell,  for  the 
moment,  I  forgot  all  else.  Here  and  there  a  squir- 
rel hopped  cautiously  from  tree  to  tree,  now  stand- 
ing on  its  branches  and  nibbling  a  nut  dug  from 
its  hiding-place,  now  scurrying  off  to  hide  it  again, 
and  as  I  watched  the  cautious  cocking  of  their 
heads  I  laughed  aloud,  and  the  sound  recalled  me 
to  the  waste  I  was  making  of  time. 

"This  isn't  writing  my  letters,  and  they  must 
go  off  on  the  afternoon  mail."  Getting  up,  I  was 
about  to  turn  from  the  window  when  a  man 
and  a  young  woman  coming  across  the  Square 
caught  my  attention  and,  hardly  knowing  why,  I 
looked  at  them  intently.  Something  about  the 
man  was  familiar.  He  was  barely  medium  height, 
and  singularly  slender,  and  though  his  head  was 

"3 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

bent  that  he  might  better  hear  the  girl  who  was 
talking,  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  him  before.  The 
girl  I  had  never  seen.  She  was  dragging  slowly,  as 
if  each  step  was  forced,  and,  putting  her  hand- 
kerchief close  to  her  mouth,  she  began  to  cough. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  still  and  I  saw  the  girl 
had  on  low  shoes  and  a  shabby  coat  which  had 
once  been  showy.  On  one  side  of  her  hat  was  a 
red  bird,  battered  and  bruised,  and  at  this  comic 
effort  at  dressiness,  which  poor  people  cling  to 
with  such  pathetic  persistence,  I  smiled,  and  then 
in  alarm  leaned  closer  to  the  window. 

They  had  begun  their  walk  again,  and  were  now 
at  the  end  of  the  path  opening  on  to  the  pavement. 
I  could  see  them  clearly,  and  instinctively  my 
hands  went  out  as  if  to  catch  her,  for  the  girl  had 
fallen  forward,  and  on  the  snow  a  tiny  stream  of 
red  was  dripping  from  her  mouth.  Quickly  the 
man  caught  her  and  put  his  handkerchief  to  her 
lips,  and  with  equal  swiftness  he  looked  around. 
He  could  not  lay  her  on  the  snow,  but  she  could 
no  longer  stand.  The  fear  in  his  face,  the  white- 
ness of  hers,  were  plainly  visible.  I  raised  the 
window. 

"Bring  her  over  here/'  I  called.  "I'll  come 
down  and  help  you." 

In  a  flash  I  was  out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
steps.  Mrs.  Mundy,  who  had  heard  my  hurried 

114 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

running,  followed  me  to  the  door.     "What  is  it?" 
she  asked.    "What's  the  matter,  Miss  Dandridge?" 

Opening  the  front  door,  I  started  down  the  steps, 
but  already  the  man,  with  the  girl  in  his  arms,  was 
coming  up  them.  "Go  back,"  he  said,  quietly, 
though  his  breath  was  quick  and  uneven.  "Go 
back.  You'll  get  your  feet  wet." 

With  a  swift  movement  Mrs.  Mundy  pushed  me 
aside.  "Mr.  Guard?"  Her  voice  was  question- 
ing, uncertain;  then  she  held  out  her  arms.  "The 
poor  child!  Give  her  to  me.  Who  is  it?  Why, 
it's — it's  Lillie  Pierce!" 

"Yes."  The  man's  voice  was  low,  and  with  a 
movement  of  his  head  his  hat  fell  on  the  floor. 
"It's  Lillie  Pierce.  She  has  fainted.  Where  shall 
I  take  her?" 

"In  here."  Opening  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  Mrs.  Mundy  motioned  Mr.  Guard  to  enter. 
From  the  girl's  mouth  the  blood  was  still  dripping, 
and  on  the  collar  of  her  coat  was  a  big  round 
splotch  of  red. 

"No,"  I  said.  "Bring  her  up-stairs.  There's 
a  room  all  fixed,  and  you  have  so  much  to  do." 
I  put  my  hand  on  Mrs.  Mundy 's  arm.  "I  can 
take  care  of  her.  Can't  we  take  her  up-stairs?" 

A  swift  look  passed  between  Mrs.  Mundy  and 
Mr.  Guard.  "No."  The  latter  shook  his  head. 
"It  is  better  for  her  to  be  down  here."  Going 

"S 


PEOPLE   LIKE    THAT 

inside  of  the  little  room,  he  laid  the  girl  on  a  cot 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  then  turned  to  me.  "Get 
a  doctor.  Call  Chester  4273  and  tell  Carson,  if 
he's  there,  to  come  at  once.  If  you  can  find  her, 
get  Miss  White  also." 

I  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  not  before  I 
saw  Mrs.  Mundy  and  Mr.  Guard  at  work  on  the 
girl,  and  already  her  hat  and  coat  were  off,  and 
warm  covering  was  being  tucked  around 
her.  Mrs.  Mundy  knew  what  to  do,  and  with  feet 
that  hardly  touched  the  steps  I  was  at  the  tel- 
ephone and  calling  the  number  that  had  been 
given  me.  I  was  frightened  and  impatient  at  the 
slowness  of  Central.  ' ' For  Heaven's  sake,  hurry !" 
I  said.  "Some  one  is  ill.  Ring  loud!" 

Dr.  Carson  was  in.  He  would  come  at  once. 
Miss  White  was  out. 

"Where  is  she?"  I  asked.  "Where  can  I  get 
her?" 

I  was  told  where  she  might  be  found,  and, 
changing  my  slippers  for  shoes,  and  putting  on 
my  coat  and  hat,  I  came  down  ready  to  go  out. 
At  the  door  of  the  room  where  they  had  taken  the 
girl  I  stopped.  She  was  now  quite  conscious,  and 
with  no  pillow  under  her  head  she  was  staring  up 
at  the  ceiling.  Blood  was  no  longer  on  her  lips, 
but  a  curious  smile  was  on  them.  It  must  have 
been  this  gasping,  faintly  scornful  smile  that 

116 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

startled  me.  It  seemed  mocking  what  had  been 
done  too  late. 

"I  am  going  for  Miss  White."  I  looked  at  Mr. 
Guard.  "She  is  at  the  Bostrows'.  The  doctor — " 

As  I  spoke  he  came  in,  a  big  man,  careless  in  dress 
and  caustic  in  speech,  but  a  man  to  be  trusted. 
I  slipped  out  and  in  a  few  minutes  had  found 
Martha  White,  and  quickly  we  walked  back  to 
Scarborough  Square. 

"It's  well  you  came  when  you  did."  She  bent 
her  head  to  keep  the  swirling  snowflakes  from 
her  face.  Martha  is  fat  and  short  and  rapid  walk- 
ing is  difficult.  "I  was  just  about  to  leave  for 
the  other  end  of  town  to  see  a  typhoid  case  of 
Miss  Wyatt's.  She's  young  and  gets  frightened 
easily,  and  I  promised  I'd  come  some  time  to-day, 
though  it's  out  of  my  district.  Who  is  this  girl 
I'm  going  to  see?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  heard  Mr.  Guard  and  Mrs. 
Mundy  call  her  Lillie  Pierce.  They  seemed  to 
know  her.  I  never  saw  her  before." 

"Never  heard  of  her."  Miss  White,  who  had 
been  district  nursing  for  fourteen  years,  made  ef- 
fort to  recall  the  name.  "  She  had  a  hemorrhage, 
you  say?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  went  up  the 
steps  ahead  of  me,  and  envy  filled  me  as  I  followed 
her  into  the  room  where  she  was  to  find  her  pa- 

117 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

tient.  Professionally  Miss  White  was  one  person, 
socially  another.  Off  duty  she  was  slow  and  shy 
and  consciously  awkward.  In  the  sick-room  she 
was  transformed.  Quiet,  cool,  steady,  alert,  she 
knew  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  With  a  word 
to  the  others,  her  coat  and  hat  were  off  and  she 
was  standing  by  the  bed,  and  again  I  was  humil- 
iated that  I  knew  how  to  do  so  little,  was  of  so 
little  worth. 

Between  the  doctor  and  herself  was  some  talk. 
Directions  were  given  and  statements  made,  and 
then  the  doctor  came  to  the  door  where  I  was 
standing.  For  a  half -moment  he  looked  me  over, 
his  near-sighted  eyes  almost  closing  in  their  squint. 

"I  knew  your  father.  A  very  unusual  man." 
He  held  out  his  hand.  "You're  like  him,  got  his 
expression,  and,  I'm  told,  the  same  disregard  of 
what  people  think.  That" — he  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder — "is  a  side  of  life  you've  never 
seen  before.  It's  a  side  men  make  and  women 
permit.  Good  morning."  Before  I  could  answer 
he  was  gone. 

Close  to  the  cot  Mrs.  Mundy  and  Miss  White 
were  still  standing.  The  latter  slipped  her  hand 
under  the  covering  and  drew  out  the  hot-water 
bag.  "This  has  cooled,"  she  said.  "Where  can  I 
get  hot  water?" 

Mrs.  Mundy  pointed  to  the  bath-room,  then 
118 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

turned,  and  together  they  left  the  room.  The  girl 
on  the  cot  was  seemingly  asleep. 

As  they  went  out  the  man,  who  was  standing 
by  the  mantel,  came  toward  me.  "I  am  David 
Guard,"  he  said.  "I  have  not  thanked  you  for 
letting  me  bring  her  in.  Had  there  been  anywhere 
else  to  take  her,  I  would  not  have  brought  her  here. 
I  met  her  at  the  other  end  of  the  Square.  We 
had  been  standing  for  some  while,  talking.  There 
was  no  place  to  which  we  could  go  to  talk,  and, 
fearing  she  would  get  too  cold,  we  had  moved  on. 
Last  month  she  tried  to  take  her  life.  This  morn- 
ing she  was  telling  me  she  could  hold  out  no 
longer.  There  was  no  way  out  of  it  but  death." 

"Who  is  she?" 

Before  he  could  answer  I  understood.  Shiver- 
ing, I  turned  away,  then  I  came  back. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  sitting-room,  Mr.  Guard? 
Can  we  not  talk  as  human  beings  who  are  trying  to 
find  the  right  way  to — to  help  wrong  things?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  MOMENT  later  we  were  up-stairs.  "I  don't 
•**•  know  why  I  am  so  cold."  My  hands,  not 
yet  steady,  were  held  out  to  the  leaping  flames. 
"Usually  I  love  a  snow-storm,  but  to-day— 

"They  tell  me  you  rarely  have  such  weather  as 
we  have  had  of  late.  Personally  I  like  it,  but  to 
many  it  means  anything  but  pleasure.  Is  this  the 
chair  you  prefer?" 

At  my  nod  he  pushed  a  low  rocker  closer  to  the 
fire  and  placed  a  foot-stool  properly.  Drawing  up 
the  wing-chair  he  sat  down  and  looked  around 
the  room.  As  the  light  fell  on  him  I  noticed  the 
olive,  almost  swarthy,  coloring  of  his  skin,  his  deep- 
sunk  eyes  with  their  changing  expressions  of 
gravity  and  humor,  of  tolerance  and  intolerance, 
and  I  knew  he  was  the  sort  of  man  one  could  talk 
to  on  any  subject  and  not  be  misunderstood.  His 
hair  was  slightly  gray,  and  frequently  his  well- 
shaped  hand  would  brush  back  a  long  lock  that 
fell  across  his  temple.  His  clothes  were  not  of  a 
clerical  cut,  and  evidently  had  seen  good  service; 

120 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

and  that  he  gave  little  attention  to  personal  details 
was  evidenced  by  his  cravat,  which  was  midway  of 
his  collar,  and  his  collar  of  a  loose,  ill-fitting  kind. 

About  him  was  something  intensely  earnest, 
intensely  eager  and  alert,  and,  watching  him,  I 
realized  he  belonged  to  that  little  group  which 
through  the  ages  has  dared  to  differ  with  accepted 
order;  and  for  his  daring  he  had  suffered,  as  all 
must  suffer  who  feel  as  well  as  think. 

"You  don't  mind,"  the  smile  on  his  face  was 
whimsical,  "if  I  take  a  good  draught  of  this,  do 
you?  It's  been  long  since  I've  seen  just  this  sort 
of  thing."  His  eyes  were  on  a  picture  between 
two  windows.  "Out  of  Denmark  one  rarely  sees 
anything  of  Skovgaard's.  That  Filipinno  Lippi 
is  excellent,  also.  At  the  Hermitage  in  St.  Peters- 
burg I  tried  to  get  a  copy  like  that" — he  nodded 
at  Rembrandt's  picture  of  himself — "but  there 
was  none  to  be  had.  Did  you  get  yours  there?" 

"  Four  years  ago.  I  also  got  that  photograph  of 
Houdon's  Voltaire  there." 

He  looked  in  the  direction  to  which  I  pointed, 
and,  getting  up,  went  over  to  first  one  picture  and 
then  another,  and  studied  them  closely.  A  bit  of 
bronze,  a  statuette  or  two,  an  altar-piece,  a  chal- 
ice, a  flagon,  a  paten,  a  censer,  and  an  ikon  held 
his  attention,  one  after  the  other,  and  again  he 
turned  to  me. 

121 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"These  are  very  interesting.  Is  it  as  one  of  the 
faithful  you  collect?"  A  smile  which  strangely 
lighted  his  face  swept  over  it. 

"Oh  no!"  I  shook  my  head.  "The  faithful 
would  find  me  a  most  disturbing  person.  I  ask 
too  many  questions."  My  hand  made  movement 
in  the  direction  of  the  bookshelves  around  the 
four  sides  of  the  room,  on  the  tops  of  which  were 
oddly  assorted  little  remembrances  of  days  of 
travel.  "A  study  of  such  things  is  a  study  of 
religious  expression  at  different  periods  and  among 
different  peoples.  They've  always  interested  me." 

"They  interest  me,  also."  Mr.  Guard  stood 
before  the  ikon,  looked  long  upon  it  before  coming 
back  to  the  fire  and  again  sitting  down.  For  a 
moment  he  gazed  into  it  as  if  forgetting  where  he 
was,  then  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  turned 
to  me. 

"A  collection  of  examples  of  ecclesiastical  art, 
of  religious  ideas  embodied  in  objects  used  for 
purposes  of  worship,  is  interesting — yes — but  a  col- 
lection of  re-actions  against  what  they  fail  to  repre- 
sent would  be  more  so,  could  they  be  collected." 

"They  have  been — haven't  they?  In  the  lives 
of  those  who  dare  to  differ,  to  break  from  heritage 
and  tradition,  much  has  been  collected  and  trans- 
mitted. The  effect  of  re-actions  is  what  counts, 
I  suppose." 

122 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"Their  inevitability  is  what  people  do  not  seem 
to  understand."  Leaning  forward,  he  again  looked 
into  the  fire,  his  hands  between  his  knees.  "The 
teachings  of  Christ  having  been  twisted  into  a 
system  of  theology,  and  the  Church  into  an  organi- 
zation based  on  dogma  and  doctrine,  re-action  is 
unescapable.  However,  we  won't  get  on  that." 
Again  he  straightened.  "Was  it  re-action  that 
brought  you  to  Scarborough  Square?  I  beg  your 
pardon !  I  have  no  right  to  ask.  There  was  some- 
thing you  wished  to  ask  me,  I  believe." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  flames  of  the  fire,  which  spluttered  and  flared 
and  made  soft,  whispering  sounds,  while  on  the 
window-panes  the  snow,  now  turning  into  sleet, 
tapped  as  if  with  tiny  fingers,  and  my  heart  began 
to  beat  queerly. 

I  did  not  know  how  to  ask  him  what  I  wanted 
to  ask.  There  was  much  he  could  tell  me,  much 
I  wished  to  hear  from  a  man's  standpoint,  but 
how  to  make  him  understand  was  difficult.  He 
had  faced  life  frankly,  knew  what  was  subterfuge, 
what  sincere,  and  the  restrictions  of  custom  and 
convention  no  longer  handicapped  him.  Between 
sympathy  and  sentimentality  he  had  found  the 
right  distinction,  and  his  judgment  and  emotions 
had  learned  to  work  together.  My  judgment  and 
emotions  were  yet  untrained. 

123 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"The  girl  down-stairs,"  I  began.  "You  and 
Mrs.  Mundy  seem  to  know  her.  If  she  belongs, 
as  I  imagine,  to  the  world  down  there,"  my  hand 
made  motion  behind  me,  ' '  Mrs.  Mundy  will  think 
I  can  do  nothing.  But  cannot  somebody  do 
something?  Must  things  always  go  on  the  same 
way?" 

' '  No.  They  will  not  always  go  on  the  same  way. 
They  will  continue  so  to  go,  however,  until  women 
— good  women — understand  they  must  chiefly 
bring  about  the  change.  For  centuries  women 
have  been  cowards,  been  ignorant  of  what  they 
should  know,  been  silent  when  they  should  speak. 
They  prefer  to  be — 

"White  roses!  But  white  roses  do  not  necessa- 
rily live  in  hot-houses."  I  pushed  my  chair  farther 
from  the  fire.  "That  is  one  of  the  reasons  I  am 
here.  I  want  to  know  where  women  fail." 

He  looked  up.  "One  does  not  often  find  a 
woman  willing  to  know.  Behind  the  confusion  of 
such  terms  as  ignorance  and  innocence  most 
women  continue  their  irresponsibility  in  certain 
directions.  They  have  accepted  man's  decree  that 
certain  evils,  having  always  existed,  must  always 
exist,  and  they  have  made  little  effort  to  test  the 
truth  of  the  assertion.  Lillie  Pierce  and  the  women 
of  her  world  are  largely  the  product  of  the  attitude 
of  good  women  toward  them.  To  the  sin  of  men 

124 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

good  women  shut  their  eyes,  pretend  they  do  not 
know.  They  do  not  want  to  know." 

"They  not  only  do  not  want  to  know,  them- 
selves— that  is,  many  of  them — but  they  would 
keep  others  from  knowing.  Perhaps  it  is  natural. 
So  many  things  have  happened  to  life  in  the  past 
few  years  that  even  clever,  able  women  are  still 
bewildered,  still  uncertain  what  is  right  to  do. 
Life  can  never  be  again  what  it  once  was,  and  still, 
most  of  us  are  trying  to  live  a  new  thing  in  an  old 
way.  We  have  so  long  been  purposely  kept  igno- 
rant, so  long  not  permitted  to  have  opinions  that 
count,  so  long  been  told  our  work  is  elsewhere,  that 
cowardice  and  indifference,  the  fear  of  inability  to 
deal  with  new  conditions,  new  obligations,  new 
responsibilities,  still  holds  us  back.  I  get  impa- 
tient, indignant,  and  then  I  realize — " 

David  Guard  laughed.  "That  many  are  still  in 
the  child  class?"  His  head  tossed  back  the  long 
lock  of  hair  that  fell  over  his  forehead.  "It  is 
true,  but  certainly  you  do  not  think  because  I  see 
the  backwardness,  the  blindness  of  some  women, 
I  do  not  see  the  forwardness,  the  vision  of  others? 
Men  have  hardly  guessed  as  yet  that  it  is  chiefly 
due  to  women  that  the  world  is  now  asking  ques- 
tions it  has  never  asked  before,  beginning  to  look 
life  in  the  face  where  once  it  blinked  at  it.  Because 
of  what  women  have  suggested,  urged,  insisted  on, 
9  125 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

and  worked  for,  the  social  conscience  all  over  the 
earth  has  been  aroused,  social  legislation  enacted, 
and  social  dreams  stand  chance  of  coming  true. 
Certain  fields  they  have  barely  entered  yet,  how- 
ever. It  is  easy  to  understand  why.  When  they 
realize  what  is  required  of  them,  they  will  not  hold 
back.  But  as  yet,  among  the  women  you  know, 
how  many  give  a  thought  to  Lillie  Pierce's  world, 
to  the  causes  and  conditions  which  make  her  and 
her  kind?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "I  do  not  know.  I've  never 
heard  her  world  discussed." 

"I  suppose  not.  In  this  entire  city  there  are 
few  women  who  think  of  girls  like  Lillie  Pierce,  or 
care  to  learn  the  truth  concerning  them;  care 
enough  to  see  that  though  they  went  unto  dogs, 
unto  dogs  they  need  not  return  if  they  wish  to  get 
away.  Most  people,  both  men  and  women,  im- 
agine such  girls  like  their  hideous  life;  that  they 
entered  it  from  deliberate  choice.  Out  of  a  hun- 
dred there  may  be  a  dozen  who  so  chose,  but  each 
of  the  others  has  her  story,  in  many  instances  a 
story  that  would  shame  all  men  because  of  man." 
He  glanced  at  the  clock  and  got  up  quickly. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I've  got  to  go.  I'd  entirely  for- 
gotten an  engagement  I'm  compelled  to  fill.  May 
I  come  again?"  He  held  out  his  hand.  "I've 
heard  about  you,  of  course.  I've  wanted  to  know 

126 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

you.  There's  much  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about. 
When  you  leave  Scarborough  Square  and  go  back 
into  your  world,  you  can  tell  it  many  things  it 
should  know.  Some  day  it  will  understand." 
Abruptly  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  girl  down -stairs,  the  girl  named  Lillie 
Pierce,  was  taken  on  the  back  porch  this 
morning,  and  for  the  first  time  Mrs.  Mundy  left 
me  alone  with  her. 

"When  the  snow's  gone  and  the  sun  shines,  the 
cot  can  be  rolled  out,  I  told  the  doctor,"  Mrs. 
Mundy  tucked  the  covering  closely  around  the 
shrinking  figure,  "but  chill  and  dampness  ain't 
friends  to  feeble  folks,  and  there's  plenty  of  fresh 
air  without  going  outdoors.  It's  hard  to  make 
even  smart  folks  like  doctors  get  more  'n  one  idea 
at  a  time  in  their  heads,  and  in  remembering  ben- 
efits, they  forget  dangers.  Are  you  ready,  child, 
for  a  whiff  of  sunshine?  It's  come  at  last,  the 
sun  has." 

The  girl  nodded  indifferently,  but  as  the  cot 
was  pushed  into  the  porch  I  saw  her  lips  quiver, 
saw  her  teeth  bitten  into  them  to  hide  their  quiv- 
ering, and  I  nodded  to  Mrs.  Mundy  to  go  inside, 
and  I,  too,  left  her  for  a  moment  and  went  down 
the  steps  to  the  little  garden  being  made  ready 

128 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

for  the  coming  of  spring.  Around  the  high  fence 
vines  had  been  planted,  a  trellis  or  two  put  against 
the  porch  for  roses  and  clematis,  and  close  to  the 
gate  an  apple-tree,  twisted  and  gnarled,  gave 
promise  of  blossoms,  if  not  of  fruit.  Already  I 
loved  the  garden  which  was  to  be. 

"Violets  are  to  be  here  and  tulips  there,"  I  said, 
under  my  breath,  and  wondered  if  Lillie  were  her- 
self again,  if  I  could  not  go  back.  "A  row  of 
snowdrops  and  bleeding-hearts  would  look  lovely 
there —  Something  g  een  and  growing  in  a 
sheltered  corner  near  the  house  caught  my  eye, 
and  stooping,  I  pulled  the  little  blossom,  and  went 
up  the  steps  to  Lillie's  cot  and  gave  it  to  her. 

Eagerly  she  held  out  her  hands  and  the  silence 
of  days  was  broken.  The  bitterness  that  had 
filled  her  eyes,  the  scorn  that  had  drawn  her  thin 
lips  into  forbidding  curves,  the  mask  of  control 
which  had  exhausted  her  strength,  yielded  at  the 
sight  of  a  little  brown-and-yellow  flower,  and  with 
a  cry  she  kissed  it,  pressed  it  to  her  face. 

"It  used  to  grow,  a  long  bed  of  it,  close  to  the 
kitchen  wall  where  it  was  warm,  and  where  it 
bloomed  before  anything  else."  The  words  came 
stumblingly.  "Mother  loved  it  best  of  all  her 
flowers;  she  had  all  sorts  in  her  garden." 

With  a  quick  turn  of  her  head  she  looked  at  me, 
in  her  face  horror,  in  her  eyes  tumultuous  pain, 

129 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

then  threw  the  flower  from  her  with  a  wild  move- 
ment, as  if  her  touch  had  blighted  it.  "Why  don't 
you  let  me  die!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  why  don't 
you  let  me  die!" 

I  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  cot  and  sat  down  by 
it.  For  a  while  I  said  nothing.  Things  long  locked 
within  her,  long  held  back,  were  struggling  for 
utterance.  In  the  days  she  had  been  with  us  her 
silence  had  been  unbroken,  but  gradually  some- 
thing bitter  and  rebellious  had  died  out  of  her  face, 
and  into  it  had  come  a  haunted,  hunted  look,  and 
yet  she  would  not  talk.  Until  she  was  ready  to 
speak  we  knew  it  was  best  to  say  nothing  to  her 
of  days  that  were  past,  or  of  those  that  were  to 
come. 

Mrs.  Mundy  had  known  her  before  she  came  to 
Scarborough  Square.  In  a  ward  of  one  of  the  city's 
hospitals,  where  her  baby  was  born,  she  had  found 
her  alone,  deserted,  and  waiting  her  time.  Two 
days  after  its  birth  the  baby  died. 

When  she  left  the  hospital  there  was  nowhere 
for  her  to  go.  She  had  lived  in  a  city  but  a  short 
time  and  knew  little  of  its  life,  and  yet  she  must 
work.  Mrs.  Mundy  got  a  room  for  her,  then  a 
place  in  a  store,  and  she  did  well,  kept  to  herself, 
but  somebody  who  knew  her  story  saw  her,  told 
the  proprietor,  and  he  turned  her  off.  He  couldn't 
keep  girls  like  that,  he  said.  It  would  injure  his 

130 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

business.  Later,  she  got  in  an  office.  She  had 
learned  at  night  to  do  typewriting,  and  there  one 
of  the  men  was  kind  to  her,  began  to  give  her  a 
little  pleasure  every  now  and  then.  She  was 
young.  It  was  dreary  where  she  lived,  and  she 
craved  a  bit  of  brightness.  One  night  he  took  her 
to  what  she  found  was — oh,  worse  than  where 
she  has  since  lived,  for  it  pretended  to  be  respect- 
able. 

"She  was  terribly  afraid  of  men.  It  wasn't 
put  on ;  it  was  real.  I  know  pretense  when  I  see 
it."  Mrs.  Mundy,  who  was  telling  me  of  the  girl, 
changed  her  position  and  fixed  the  screen  so  that 
the  flames  from  the  fire  should  not  burn  her  face. 
'  'Ever  since  the  father  of  the  child  had  deserted  her, 
she  had  believed  all  men  were  wicked,  but  this 
man  had  been  so  friendly,  so  kindly,  she  thought 
he  was  different  from  the  others.  When  she  found 
where  she  was,  she  was  crazy  with  fear  and  anger, 
and  made  a  scene  before  she  left.  The  next  morn- 
ing when  she  went  to  work  she  was  told  her  ser- 
vices were  no  longer  needed,  and  told  in  a  way 
that  made  her  understand  she  was  not  fit  to  work 
in  the  room  with  other  girls.  The  man  who  had 
charge  of  the  room  was  the  man  she  had  thought 
a  friend.  He's  got  his  job  still." 

The  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel  alone 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  room  as  Mrs.  Mundy 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

stopped.  I  tried  to  say  something,  but  words 
would  not  come. 

"For  years  I've  heard  the  stories  of  these  poor 
creatures."  Mrs.  Mundy's  even  tones  steadied 
somewhat  the  protesting  tumult  in  my  heart. 
"For  years  I've  known  the  awful  side  of  the  lives 
they  lead.  I  didn't  have  money  or  learning  or 
influence,  or  the  chance  to  make  good  people 
understand,  even  if  they'd  been  willing  to  hear, 
what  I  could  tell,  but  I  could  help  one  of  them 
every  now  and  then.  There  're  few  of  them  who 
start  out  deliberate  to  live  wrong.  When  they 
take  it  up  regular  its  'most  always  because  they're 
like  dogs  at  bay.  There's  nothing  else  to  do." 

"What  became  of  Lillie  when  she  lost  her 
place?"  I  got  up  from  the  sofa  and  came  closer  to 
the  fire.  My  teeth  were  chattering. 

"She  lost  her  soul.  She  went  in  a  factory,  but 
the  air  jmade  her  sick,  and  after  three  faints  they 
turned  her  off.  It  interrupted  the  work  and  made 
the  girls  lose  time  running  to  her,  and  so  she  had 
to  go.  After  a  while — I  was  away  at  the  time — the 
woman  she  lived  with  turned  her  out.  She  owed 
room  rent,  a  good  deal  of  it,  and  she  needed  food 
and  clothes,  and  there  was  no  money  with  which 
to  buy  them.  It  got  her  crazy,  the  thought  that 
because  she  had  done  wrong  she  was  but  a  rag 
to  be  kicked  from  place  to  place  with  only  the 

132 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

gutter  to  land  in  at  last,  and — well,  she  landed. 
But  she  isn't  all  bad.  I  used  to  feel  about  girls 
like  her  just  as  most  good  people  still  feel,  but  I've 
come  to  see  there's  many  of  them  who  are  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning.  The  men  who  make 
and  keep  them  what  they  are  go  free  and  are  let 
alone." 

"Couldn't  she  have  gone  home?  You  said  she 
was  from  the  country.  Wouldn't  they  let  her 
come  back  home?" 

Mrs.  Mundy  shook  her  head.  ' '  Her  own  mother 
was  dead  and  her  stepmother  wouldn't  let  her 
come.  She  had  young  children  of  her  own.  Last 
month  she  tried  to  end  it  all.  She  won't  be  here 
much  longer.  The  doctor  says  she'll  hardly  live 
six  months.  If  we  can  get  her  in  the  City  Home — ' ' 

"The  City  Home!"  The  memory  of  what  I 
had  seen  there  came  over  me  protestingly.  The 
girl  had  lived  in  hell.  She  need  not  die  in  it. 
"Perhaps  she  can  be  sent  somewhere  in  the  coun- 
try," I  said,  after  a  while.  "Mr.  Guard  might 
know  of  some  one  who  will  take  her.  Certainly 
she  can  stay  here  until — until  he  knows  what  is 
best  to  do." 

Mrs.  Mundy  got  up.  For  a  moment  she  looked 
at  me,  started  to  say  something,  then  went  out  of 
the  room.  She  was  crying.  I  wonder  if  I  said 
anything  I  shouldn't. 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"Tell  me  of  your  mother's  garden."  I  picked 
up  the  tiny  flower  and  put  it  on  Lillie's  cot,  where 
its  fragrance  waked  faint  stirrings  of  other  days. 
"I've  always  wanted  a  garden  like  my  grand- 
mother Heath  used  to  have.  I  remember  it  very*: 
well,  though  I  was  only  nine  when  she  died.  There 
were  cherry-trees  and  fig-trees  in  it,  and  a  big 
arbor  covered  with  scuppernong  grape-vines,  and 
wonderful  strawberries  in  one  corner.  All  of  her 
flowers  were  the  old-fashioned  kind.  There  was 
a  beautiful  yellow  rose  that  grew  all  over  the  fence 
which  separated  the  flowers  from  the  vegetables, 
and  close  to  the  wood-house  was  a  big  moss-rose 
bush.  There  were  Micrafella  roses,  too.  I  loved 
them  best,  and  Jacqueminots,  and  tea-roses, 
and—" 

"Did  she  have  princess-feather  in  hers,  and 
candytuft,  and  sweet-williams?"  Lillie  turned 
over  on  her  side,  her  hand  under  her  cheek,  and 
in  her  eyes  a  quick,  eager  glow.  "In  mother's 
garden  were  all  sorts  of  old-fashioned  flowers  also. 
We  lived  two  miles  from  town  and  father  sold 
vegetables  and  chickens  to  the  market-men,  who 
sold  them  to  their  customers.  But  he  never  had 
as  good  luck  with  his  vegetables  as  mother  had 
with  her  flowers.  She  loved  them  so.  There  was 
a  big  mock-orange  bush  right  by  the  well.  Did 
you  ever  shut  your  eyes  and  see  things  again  just 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

as  they  were  a  long  time  ago?  If  I  were  blind- 
folded and  my  hands  tied  behind  me  I  could  find 
just  where  every  flower  used  to  grow  in  mother's 
garden,  if  I  could  go  in  it  again." 

Like  a  flood  overleaping  the  barrier  that  held 
it  back,  the  words  came  eagerly.  To  keep  her 
from  talking  would  do  more  harm  than  to  let 
her  talk.  The  fever  in  her  soul  was  greater,  more 
consuming,  than  that  in  her  body.  I  did  not  try 
to  stop  her. 

"I  don't  remember  where  each  thing  was  in 
grandmother's  garden."  I  moved  my  chair  a 
little  closer  to  her  cot.  "But  I  remember  the 
gooseberry-bushes  were  just  behind  a  long  bed  of 
lilies-of-the- valley.  It  seemed  so  queer  they  should 
be  together." 

"Lilies  of  the  valley  grow  anywhere.  Mother's 
bed  got  bigger  every  year.  There  was  a  large 
circle  of  them  around  a  mound  in  the  middle  of 
our  garden,  and  they  were  fringed  with  violets. 
One  February  our  minister's  wife  died.  They 
didn't  have  any  flowers,  and  it  seemed  so  dreadful 
not  to  have  any  that  I  went  into  the  garden  to  see 
if  I  couldn't  find  something.  The  ground  was 
covered  with  snow,  but  the  week  before  had  been 
warm,  and,  going  to  one  of  the  beds,  I  brushed  the 
snow  away  and  found  a  lot  of  white  violets.  They 
were  blooming  under  the  snow.  I  pulled  them 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

and  took  them  to  the  minister,  and  he  put  them  in 
her  hands.  They  used  to  put  flowers  in  people's 
hands  when  they  were  dead.  I  don't  know 
whether  they  do  it  now  or  not." 

"Sometimes  it  is  done."  I  took  up  the  sewing 
in  my  lap  and  made  a  few  stitches.  ' '  Tell  me  some 
more  of  your  mother's  garden.  Did  she  have  win- 
ter pinks  and  bachelor's  buttons  and  snap-dragons 
and  hollyhocks  in  it  ?  I  used  to  hate  grandmother's 
hollyhocks.  They  were  so  haughty." 

"We  did  not  have  any,  but  we  had  bridal- 
wreath  and  spirea  and  a  big  pomegranate-bush. 
There  were  two  large  oleanders  in  tubs  at  the  foot 
of  the  front  steps.  One  was  mine,  the  other  was 
my  sister's.  My  sister  is  married  now  and  lives 
out  West.  She  has  two  children." 

A  bird  on  the  bough  of  the  apple-tree  began  to 
twitter.  For  a  moment  Lillie  listened,  then  again 
she  looked  at  me,  in  her  eyes  that  which  I  had 
noticed  several  times  before,  a  look  of  torturing 
fear  and  pain  and  shame. 

"Do" — her  voice  was  low — "do  you  know 
about  me?" 

"Yes,  I  know  about  you." 

"You  know — and — and  still  you  talk  to  me?  I 
don't  understand.  Why  did  you  come  down  here? 
You  don't  belong  in  Scarborough  Square." 

"Why  not?  I  have  no  one  who  needs  me."  I 
136 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

held  my  bit  of  sewing  off,  looked  at  it  carefully. 
"Other  women  have  their  homes,  their  husbands 
and  children,  or  their  families,  or  duties  or  obli- 
gations of  some  sort,  which  they  cannot  leave,  even 
if  they  wanted  to  know,  to  understand  better  how 
they  might — "  I  leaned  forward.  "I  think  you 
can  help  me,  Lillie,  help  me  very  much." 

"Help  you —  Half  lifting  herself  up,  Lillie 
stared  at  me  as  if  not  understanding,  then  the 
flush  in  her  face  deepened.  "I  help  anybody! 
Oh,  my  God!  if  I  only  could!  If  I  only  could!" 

"I'm  sure  you  can."  I  picked  up  the  flower, 
which  again  had  fallen.  "The  doctor  says  you 
can  go  in  the  country  soon,  but  before  you  go — " 

"I  hope  I  won't  live  long  enough  to  go  any- 
where, but  before  I  go  away  for  good  if  I  could  tell 
you  what  you  could  tell  to  others,  and  make  them 
understand  how  different  it  is  from  what  they 
think,  make  them  know  the  awfulness — awful- 
ness — " 

She  turned  her  head  away,  buried  it  in  her  arms, 
her  body  shaking  in  convulsive  sobs.  The  bird  on 
the  apple-tree  had  stopped  its  singing,  and  the 
sun  was  no  longer  shining.  In  the  hall  I  heard 
Mrs.  Mundy  go  to  the  door,  heard  it  open;  then 
heavier  footsteps  came  toward  us.  I  looked 
around.  Selwyn  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OELWYN  closed  the  door,  put  his  hat  and 
^  overcoat  on  a  chair  beside  it,  and  came  over 
to  the  fire.  Standing  in  front  of  it,  hands  in  his 
pockets,  he  looked  at  me.  I,  also,  was  standing. 

' '  Why  don't  you  sit  down  ?  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ? 
Am  I  interrupting  you?" 

I  shook  my  head.  ' '  I  am  not  in  a  hurry,  and  you 
are  not  interrupting.  I  thought  perhaps — 

"Thought  what?" 

"That  you  were  in  a  hurry."  I  sat  down  on 
a  footstool  near  the  mantel,  and  leaned  against  the 
latter,  my  hands  on  my  knees.  "  I  so  seldom  have 
a  visit  from  a  man  in  the  morning  that  I  don't 
know  how  to  behave."  My  head  nodded  toward 
the  chair  he  usually  preferred. 

"I  would  not  take  your  time  now — but  I  must." 
He  took  a  seat  opposite  me,  and  looking  at  me, 
his  face  changed.  "What  is  the  matter?  Are  you 
sick?  Your  eyes  look  like  holes  in  a  blanket. 
Something  has  been  keeping  you  awake.  What 
is  it?" 

138 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"I  am  not  at  all  sick,  and  I  slept  very  well  last 
night."  I  drew  a  little  further  from  the  flame  of 
the  fire.  "I'm  sorry  if  my  eyes — " 

"Belie  your  bluff?  They  always  do.  Resist  as 
you  will,  they  give  you  away.  You've  been  work- 
ing yourself  to  death  doing  absurd  things  for  un- 
thankful people.  Who  is  that  sick  person  down- 
stairs? Where'd  you  pick  her  up?" 

"I  didn't  pick  her  up.  She  had  a  hemorrhage 
and  fainted  in  front  of  the  house.  I  happened  to 
see  her  and — and — " 

"Had  her  brought  in.  I  understand.  In  a 
neighborhood  of  this  sort  you  don't  know  who 
you're  bringing  in,  but  I  suppose  that  doesn't 
matter." 

"No,  it  doesn't — when  the  bringing  in  is  a 
matter  of  life  and  death,  perhaps!  As  long  as  I 
am  here  and  Mrs.  Mundy  is  here,  any  one  can 
come  in  who  for  the  moment  has  nowhere  else  to 
go.  Scarborough  Square  has  no  walls  around  its 
houses.  Whoever  needs  us  is  a  neighbor.  The 
girl  was  ill." 

My  voice  was  indignant.  There  are  times  when 
Selwyn  makes  me  absolutely  furious.  He  appar- 
ently takes  pleasure  in  pretending  to  have  no 
heart.  Then,  too,  he  was  talking  and  acting  in 
such  contrast  to  the  way  I  had  expected  him  to 
talk  and  act  at  our  first  meeting  alone  after  the 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

past  weeks,  that  in  amazement  I  stared  at  him. 
Of  self -consciousness  or  embarrassment  there  was 
no  sign.  It  had  obviously  not  occurred  to  him 
that  his  acquaintanceship  with  a  girl  he  had  given 
no  evidence  of  knowing  when  I  was  present,  and 
three  days  later  had  been  seen  walking  with  on 
the  street,  absorbed  in  deep  and  earnest  con- 
versation, was  a  matter  I  would  like  to  have 
explained.  The  density  of  men  for  a  moment 
kept  me  dumb. 

Selwyn  has  been  reared  in  a  school  honest  in  its 
belief  that  a  woman  is  too  fine  and  fair  a  thing  to 
face  life  frankly;  that  personal  knowledge  and 
understanding  on  her  part  of  certain  verities,  cer- 
tain actualities,  did  the  world  no  good  and  woman 
harm.  But  the  woman  of  whom  he  thought  was 
the  sheltered,  cultured,  cared-for  woman  of  his 
world.  Protection  of  her  was  a  man's  privilege 
and  obligation.  Of  the  woman  who  has  to  do  her 
own  protecting,  fight  her  way  through,  meet  the 
demands  of  those  dependent  on  her,  he  personally 
knew  little.  It  was  what  he  needed  much  to 
know. 

But  because  his  handsome,  haughty  mother  had 
lived  in  high-bred,  self-congratulatory  ignorance 
of  what  she  believed  did  not  concern  her,  and  be- 
cause he  has  for  a  sister,  who's  a  step-sister,  a  silly, 
snobby  person,  he  is  not  justified  in  withholding 

140 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

from  me  what  he  naturally  withheld  from  them. 
One  can  be  a  human  being  as  well  as  a  lady.  It's 
this  that  is  difficult  to  make  him  understand. 

For  a  half -moment  longer  I  looked  at  him,  then 
away.  Apparently  he  had  not  heard  what  I  said. 

"I  should  not  trouble  you.  I  have  no  right,  but 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I've  so  long  come  to 
you —  He  turned  to  me  uncertainly. 

"What  is  it?"  I  got  up  from  the  footstool  and 
took  my  seat  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa.  "Why 
shouldn't  you  come  to  me?" 

"You  have  enough  on  you  now."  He  bit  his 
lip.  "It's  about  Harrie — the  boy  must  be  crazy. 
For  the  past  few  weeks  he  has  kept  me  close  to 
hell.  I  never  imagined  the  time  would  come  when 
I  would  thank  God  my  father  was  dead.  It's 
come  now." 

"What  is  it,  Selwyn?  There  is  nothing  you 
cannot  tell  me."  I  leaned  forward,  my  hands 
twisting  in  my  lap.  I  knew  more  of  Harrie  than 
Selwyn  knew  I  knew,  but  because  he  was  the  one 
person  I  did  know  with  whom  I  had  no  measure  of 
patience,  I  rarely  mentioned  his  name.  Harrie  is 
Selwyn's  weakness,  and  to  his  faults  and  failings 
the  latter  is,  outwardly,  at  least,  most  inexplicably 
blind.  He  is  as  handsome  as  he  is  unprincipled 
and  irresponsible,  and  his  power  to  fascinate  is 
seemingly  limited  only  by  his  desire  to  exercise  it, 
10  141 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"What  is  it?"  I  repeated.  "What  has  he  been 
doing?" 

' '  Everything  he  shouldn't. ' '  Selwyn  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  in  the  fire.  "I  was  wrong,  I  sup- 
pose, but  something  had  to  be  done.  For  some 
time  he's  been  drinking  and  gambling,  and  I  told 
him  it  had  to  stop.  I  stood  it  as  long  as  I  could, 
but  when  I  found  he  would  frequently  come  home 
too  drunk  to  get  in  bed,  and  would  have  to  be  put 
there  by  Wingfield,  who  would  be  listening  for 
him,  I  had  a  talk  with  him  which  it  isn't  pleasant 
to  remember.  I'd  had  a  good  many  before.  God 
knows  I've  tried — " 

Selwyn  got  up,  went  over  to  the  window  and 
stood  for  a  moment  at  it  with  his  back  to  me. 
Presently  he  left  it  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"I've  doubtless  made  a  mess  of  looking  after 
him,  but  I  did  the  best  I  knew  how.  Because  of 
the  eleven  years'  difference  in  our  ages  I've  shut 
my  eyes  to  much  I  should  have  seen,  and  refused 
to  hear  what  I  should  have  listened  to,  perhaps, 
but  I  was  afraid  of  being  too  severe,  too  lacking  in 
sympathy  with  his  youth,  with  the  differences  in 
our  natures,  and,  chiefly,  because  I  knew  he  was 
largely  the  product  of  his  rearing.  He  was  only 
fourteen  when  father  died,  and  to  the  day  of  her 
death  mother  allowed  no  one  to  correct  him.  She 

142 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

indulged  him  beyond  sense  or  reason;  let  him 
grow  up  with  the  idea  that  whatever  he  wanted  he 
could  have.  Restraint  and  discipline  were  never 
taught  him.  As  for  direction,  guidance,  train- 
ing—  Selwyn's  shoulders  shrugged.  "If  I  said 
anything  to  mother,  cautioned  her  of  the  mistake 
she  was  making,  she  thought  me  hard  and  cruel, 
and  ended  by  weeping.  After  her  death  it  was 
too  late." 

"Doesn't  he  work?  Does  he  do  nothing  at 
all?" 

"Work!"  Selwyn  stopped.  "He's  never  done 
a  day's  work  in  his  life  that  earned  what  he  got 
for  it.  When  he  refused  to  go  back  to  college 
mother  bought  him  a  place  in  Hoge  and  Howell's 
office.  They  kept  him  until  he'd  used  up  the 
capital  put  in  the  business,  then  got  rid  of  him. 
I  offered  to  put  more  in,  but  they  wouldn't  agree. 
Later,  I  got  John  Moore  to  take  him  in,  but  John 
now  refuses  to  renew  their  contract.  He's  abso- 
lutely no  good.  That's  a  pretty  hard  thing  to  say 
about  one's  brother,  but  it's  true.  He's  the  only 
thing  on  earth  belonging  to  me  that  I've  got  to 
love,  and  now — 

Selwyn's  voice  was  husky,  and  again  he  went  to 
the  window,  looked  long  upon  the  Square,  and  for 
a  moment  I  said  nothing.  I  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say.  From  various  friends  of  other  days  who 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

came  occasionally  to  see  me  in  my  new  home,  I  had 
heard  of  Harrie's  wild  behavior  of  late,  of  Selwyn's 
patient  shielding  of  him,  of  the  latter' s  love  and 
loyalty  and  care  of  the  boy  to  whom  he  had  been 
far  more  than  a  brother,  and  I  wanted  much  to 
help  him,  to  say  something  that  would  hearten 
him,  and  there  was  nothing  I  could  say.  Harrie 
was  selfish  to  the  core;  he  was  unprincipled 
and  unscrupulous,  and  for  long  I  had  feared  that 
some  day  he  would  give  Selwyn  sore  and  serious 
trouble.  That  day  had  seemingly  come. 

"He  is  so  young.  At  twenty- three  life  isn't 
taken  very  seriously  by  boys  of  Harrie's  nature. 
He'll  come  to  himself  after  a  while."  I  was  fum- 
bling for  words.  ' '  When  his  money  is  entirely  gone 
he'll  tire  of  his — his  way  of  living  and  behave 
himself." 

"The  lack  of  money  doesn't  disturb  him.  I 
bought  his  interest  in  the  house  for  fear  he'd  sell 
it  to  some  one  else.  He's  pretty  nearly  gotten 
through  with  that,  as  with  other  things  he  in- 
herited. How  in  the  name  of  Heaven  my  father's 
son — "  Selwyn  came  over  to  the  sofa  and  sat 
down.  "I  didn't  mean  to  speak  of  this,  however; 
of  his  past  behavior.  It's  concerning  his  latest 
adventure  that  I  want  your  help,  want  you  to 
tell  me  what  to  do." 

' '  Why  don '  t  you  smoke  ?  Haven '  t  you  a  cigar  ? ' ' 
144 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

I  reached  for  a  box  of  matches  behind  me.  "Be- 
gin at  the  beginning  and  tell  me  everything." 

Selwyn  lighted  his  cigar  and  for  a  while  smoked 
in  silence.  In  his  face  were  deep  lines  that  aged 
it  strangely  and  for  the  first  time  I  noticed  graying 
hair  about  his  temples.  Suddenly  something 
clutched  my  heart  queerly,  something  that  cleared 
unnaming  darkness,  and  understanding  was  upon 
me.  Unsteadily  my  hand  went  out  toward  him. 

"There  is  nothing  you  cannot  ask  me  to  do, 
Selwyn.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  help 
you." 

He  Hf  ted  my  hand  to  his  lips.  ' '  There  is  no  one 
but  you  I  would  talk  to  of  this.  You  will  not  mis- 
understand. If  I  could  not  come  to  you — " 

I  drew  my  hand  away.  "That's  what  a  woman 
is  for,  to — to  stand  by  when  a  man  needs  her." 
My  words  came  stammeringly.  "I  heard  Harrie 
was  away.  Where  is  he  and  why  did  he  go?" 

"He's  in  Texas.  He  went,  I  think,  because  of 
a  mix-up  with  a  girl  here  he  had  no  business  know- 
ing. There  was  a  row,  I  believe."  Selwyn 
frowned,  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  with 
impatient  movement.  "There's  no  use  going  into 
that.  I'm  not  excusing  him;  there's  no  excuse, 
but  so  far  as  that's  concerned  there's  nothing  to 
be  done,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  He  got  involved  with 
this  girl,  a  little  cashier  at  some  restaurant  down- 
US 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

town  who  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  her.  I 
knew  nothing  about  this  until  a  few  weeks  ago. 
When  I  heard  it,  I  went  to  see  the  girl." 

The  tension  of  past  weeks,  not  yet  entirely  un- 
relaxed,  snapped  with  such  swiftness  that  I  seemed 
suffocating,  and,  lest  he  hear  the  sob  in  my  throat, 
I  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  window  and  opened 
it  a  little.  "Was  she — "  I  made  effort  to  speak 
steadily.  "Was  she  the  girl  who  was  brought  in 
here?  The  girl  you  were  with  some  three  weeks 
ago?" 

Selwyn,  who  had  gotten  up  as  I  came  back  to 
the  sofa,  again  sat  down.  "Yes.  She  was  the 
girl."  His  voice  was  indifferently  even.  He  had 
obviously  no  suspicion  of  my  unworthy  wonder- 
ing, had  forgotten,  indeed,  his  indignation  at  the 
question  I  had  asked  him  after  seeing  him  with 
her.  Other  things  more  compelling  had  evidently 
crowded  it  from  memory. 

' '  I  had  never  seen  her  until  the  night  I  saw  her 
here.  She,  I  learned  later,  knew  me,  however,  as 
Harrie's  brother.  I  had  been  told  that  Harrie 
was  infatuated  with  her,  and,  knowing  there  could 
only  be  disaster  unless  the  thing  was  stopped,  I 
went  to  see  the  girl.  The  evening  you  saw  me  was 
the  second  time  I  had  seen  her.  I  was  trying  to 
make  her  promise  to  go  away.  This  isn't  her 
home.  She  came  here  to  get  work." 

146 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Selwyn  leaned  back  against  the  sofa,  and  his  eyes 
looked  into  mine  with  helpless  questioning.  "I've 
been  brought  in  contact  professionally  with  many 
types  of  human  beings,  but  that  girl  is  the  most 
baffling  thing  I've  come  across  yet.  I  can't  make 
her  out.  The  night  after  I  saw  her  here  I  went  to 
see  her  at  what,  I  supposed,  was  her  home,  just  op- 
posite the  Hadley  box-factory.  Later  she  told  me 
she  didn't  live  there,  and  would  not  say  where  she 
lived.  All  the  time  I  talked  to  her  her  eyes  were  on 
her  hands  in  her  lap  and,  though  occasionally  her 
lips  would  twist,  she  would  say  nothing.  It  isn't  a 
pleasant  thing  for  a  man  to  tell  a  girl  his  brother 
isn't  a  safe  person  for  her  to  go  with,  isn't  one  to 
be  trusted,  but  I  did  tell  her.  She's  an  odd  little 
thing,  all  fire  and  flame,  and  to  talk  frankly  was 
to  be  brutal,  but  some  day  she  should  thank  me. 
She  won't  do  it.  She  will  hate  me  always  for  warn- 
ing her.  She  knew  as  well  as  I  that  marriage  was 
out  of  the  question,  and  yet  she  would  not  promise 
to  give  Harrie  up.  When  you  saw  me  I  was  on 
my  way  for  a  second  talk  with  her.  Meeting  her 
on  the  street,  I  did  not  go  to  the  house,  which  she 
said  she  had  just  left,  and  as  she  would  not  tell 
me  where  she  was  going,  I  had  to  do  my  talking 
as  we  walked." 

"Did  she  promise  to  go  away?"  I  looked  into 
the  fire,  and  the  odd,  elfish,  frightened  face  of  the 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

girl  with  the  baby  in  her  arms  looked  at  me  out  of 
the  bed  of  coals.  "Did  she  promise  to  go?"  I 
repeated. 

Selwyn  shook  his  head.  "She  would  promise 
nothing.  I  could  get  nothing  out  of  her,  could  not 
make  her  talk.  Harrie  has  been  a  durned  fool — • 
perhaps  worse,  I  don't  know.  I  tried  to  help  her, 
and  I  failed." 

My  fingers  interlocked  in  nervous  movements. 
Why  hadn't  the  girl  told  Selwyn?  Why  was  she 
shielding  Harrie?  Would  she  tell  me  or  Mrs. 
Mundy  what  she  would  not  tell  Selwyn?  I  could 
send  Mrs.  Mundy  to  her  now — could  break  the 
silence  which  was  mystifying  to  her. 

Selwyn's  hands  moved  as  though  to  rid  them  of 
all  further  responsibility.  "You  can't  do  any- 
thing with  people  like  that.  She'd  rather  stay  on 
here  and  take  the  chance  of  seeing  Harrie  than  go 
away  from  temptation.  I'm  sorry  for  her,  but 
I'm  through." 

"No,  you're  not  through.  Perhaps  we've  just 
begun.  Maybe  there — there  were  reasons  of 
which  she  couldn't  tell  you  that  kept  her  here." 
I  looked  at  him,  then  away.  "The  night  we 
heard  her  fall,  heard  her  cry  out;  the  night  we 
brought  her  in  here,  you  met  some  one  across  the 
street  when  you  went  away.  Was  it — Harrie?" 

In  Selwyn's  face  came  flush  that  crimsoned  it. 
148 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"Yes,  it  was  Harrie.  I  don't  know  what  hap- 
pened. He  had  been  drinking,  but  I  can't  believe 
he  struck  her.  If  he  did — my  God!" 

With  shuddering  movement  Selwyn's  elbows 
were  on  his  knees,  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  only 
the  dropping  of  a  coal  upon  the  hearth  broke  the 
stillness  of  the  room.  Presently  he  got  up  and 
again  went  over  to  the  window.  When  he  next 
spoke  his  voice  was  quiet,  but  in  it  a  bitterness  and 
weariness  he  made  no  effort  to  conceal.  "It  was 
Harrie,  but  he  would  tell  me  nothing  about  the 
girl.  From  some  one  else  I  learned  where  I  could 
find  her.  A  few  days  after  I  saw  her,  Harrie 
went  away." 

"Did  you  make  him  go?" 

"No.  I  had  a  talk  with  him  during  which  he 
told  me  to  mind  my  own  damned  business  and  he 
would  mind  his."  Selwyn  turned  from  the  win- 
dow and  came  back  to  the  sofa,  on  his  lips  a  faint 
smile.  ' '  When  he  went  off  he  didn't  tell  me  he  was 
going,  left  no  address,  and  for  some  time  I  didn't 
know  where  he  was.  Less  than  three  weeks  ago 
I  had  a  telegram  from  him  saying  he  was  ill  and 
to  send  money.  I  wired  the  money  and  left  for 
El  Paso  on  the  first  train  I  could  make.  I  tried 
to  see  you  before  I  went,  but  you  were  out." 

"Why  didn't  you  write?" 

"I  couldn't.  Once  or  twice  I  tried,  but  gave 
149 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

it  up.  I  found  that  Harrie  had  undoubtedly  been 
ill,  but  when  I  reached  him  he  was  up  and  about. 
Two  hours  before  I  took  the  train  to  return  home 
he  informed  me  of  his  engagement  to — 

"His  what?"  For  a  moment  I  sat  rigidly  up- 
right, in  my  eyes  indignant  unbelief.  Then  I  sat 
back  limp  and  relaxed,  my  hands,  palms  upward, 
in  my  lap. 

Selwyn's  shoulders  shrugged.  "Your  amaze- 
ment is  feeble  to  what  mine  was.  On  the  train 
going  down  he  had  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
a  girl  and  her  mother  he  had  met  somewhere;  here, 
I  believe,  and  a  week  after  reaching  her  home  the 
girl  was  engaged  to  him.  Her  name  is  Swink." 

"Is  she  crazy?" 

"No.  Her  mother  is  crazy.  I  don't  blame 
the  girl.  She's  young,  pretty,  silly,  and  doubt- 
less in  love.  Harrie  has  fatal  facility  in  mak- 
ing love.  This  mamma  person  has  a  good  deal 
of  money;  no  sense,  and  large  social  ambitions. 
She's  determined  to  get  there.  If  only  fools  died 
as  soon  as  they  were  born  there  would  be  hope  for 
humanity.  A  fat  fool  is  beyond  the  reach  of  en- 
deavor." With  eyes  narrowed  and  his  forehead 
ridged  in  tiny  folds,  Selwyn  stared  at  me.  "Have 
women  no  sense,  Danny?  Have  they  no  under- 
standing, no — " 

"Some  have.  But  sense  and  understanding  in- 
150 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

terfere  with  comfortable  ignorances  that  aren't 
pleasant  to  be  interfered  with.  Does  this  female 
parent  know  anything  about  Harrie?  Did  she  let 
her  daughter  become  engaged  before  making  in- 
quiries about  him?" 

"She  knows  very  well  who  he  is.  She's  visited 
here  several  times.  If  told  of  Harrie's  past  dissi- 
pations, she'd  soothe  herself  with  the  usual  dope 
of  boys  being  boys,  and  men  being  men,  and  by- 
gones being  bygones."  Selwyn's  hands  made  ges- 
ture of  disgust.  "It's  a  plain  case  of  damned  fool. 
She  deserves  what  she'll  get  if  she  lets  her  daughter 
marry  Harrie.  But  the  daughter  doesn't.  Some- 
body ought  to  tell  the  child  she  mustn't  marry 
him.  If  there  was  a  father  or  brother  the  respon- 
sibility would  be  on  them.  There's  neither." 

"But  didn't  you  tell  Harrie— that— that— " 

' '  I  did.  And  the  language  I  used  was  not  learned 
in  a  kindergarten.  Among  other  things  I  told  him 
was  that  if  he —  Oh,  it's  no  use  going  into  that.  It's 
easy  to  say  what  you'll  do,  but  it  isn't  easy  to 
show  your  brother  up  as — as  everything  one's 
brother  shouldn't  be." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Selwyn  continued  his 
restless  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  in  his 
face  no  masking  of  the  pain  and  weariness  of  spirit 
that  were  possessing  him.  To  no  one  else  would 
he  speak  so  frankly  of  a  family  affair,  and  I  wanted 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

;nuch  to  help  him,  but  how?  What  was  it  he 
wanted  me  to  do?  I  could  not  see  where  I  came 
in  to  do  anything. 

' '  Is  Harrie  very  much  in  love  ? ' '  Such  question- 
ing was  consciously  silly,  but  something  had  to  be 
said.  "Do  you  think  he  really  loves  the  girl?" 

"No,  I  don't.  He  says  he  does,  of  course,  but 
he  doesn't  love  anything  but  himself.  Making 
love  is  a  habit  with  him.  Our  girls  know  how  to 
take  the  sort  of  stuff  he  talks;  rather  expect  it,  but 
this  little  creature  is  obviously  a  literalist.  I 
imagine  Harrie  hardly  remembers  how  it  happened. 
He  probably  was  surprised  to  find  himself  en- 
gaged. However,  he's  determined  to  go  through 
with  it.  A  million-dollar  mother-in-law  has  a  good 
deal  in  her  favor.  But  something  is  the  matter 
with  the  boy.  He's  not  himself." 

' '  Didn't  he  go  away  about  a  year  ago,  and  stay 
some  time?  If  he  could  begin  all  over — 

"There's  nowhere  under  heaven  I  wouldn't  send 
him  if  he'd  go  with  the  purpose  of  beginning  all 
over,  but  he  won't  stay  away.  About  six  months 
ago  he  went  to  South  America  and  stayed  four 
months.  Since  he  got  home  he's  been  worse  than 
ever — reckless,  defiant,  and  drinking  heavily.  His 
health  has  gone  and  most  of  his  money ;  practically 
all  of  it.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  want  to  do 
what  is  right.  Tell  me  what  it  is,  Danny." 

152 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

My  breath  was  drawn  in  shiveringly  and  the 
frightened  face  of  the  girl  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms  again  seemed  close  to  me.  Why  was  I  so 
halting,  so  afraid  to  speak?  Usually  I  reached 
decisions  quickly,  but  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  the 
girl's  eyes.  They  seemed  appealing  for  protection. 
Until  I  knew  more  about  her  I  must  say  nothing. 
Mrs.  Mundy  must  go  to  see  her  and  then — 

"I  know  I  shouldn't  bother  you  with  all  this." 
Selwyn's  voice  recalled  me  and  the  face  in  the  fire 
vanished.  "But  there  is  no  one  else  I  can  talk  to. 
I  should  as  soon  go  to  a  patient  in  a  nerve  sani- 
tarium as  to  Mildred.  As  a  sister  Mildred  is  not 
a  success.  She'd  first  have  hysterics  and  tell  me 
I  was  brutal  to  poor  Harrie,  and  then  declare  that 
to  marry  a  million  dollars  was  the  chance  of  a  life- 
time for  him.  One  of  the  ten  thousand  things  I 
can't  understand  about  women  is  their  defense  of 
men,  their  acceptance  of  his — shortcomings,  and 
their  disregard  of  the  woman  who  must  pay  the 
price  of  the  latter.  Mildred  would  probably  not 
give  Miss  Swink  a  thought." 

"Harrie's  sister  and  his  mamma-in-law-to-be 
will  doubtless  find  each  other  congenial.  They  be- 
lieve in  sweet  ignorance  and  blind  acceptance  for 
their  sex.  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Sel- 
wyn  ?  What  is  it  I  can  do  ?" 

' '  I  don't  know."    Hand  on  the  back  of  the  sofa, 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

he  looked  down  at  me.  "When  things  go  wrong 
I  always  come  to  you.  When  they  go  right  you 
are  not  nice  to  me.  To-day  I  had  a  letter  from 
Harrie.  He's  coming  back  next  week.  His  fiancee 
and  her  mother  are  coming  with  him.  The  en- 
gagement is  not  to  be  announced  just  yet,  how- 
ever, and  he  asks  me  to  keep  it  on  the  quiet." 

"And  you've  told  me." 

"Told  you!"  Selwyn's  voice  was  querulous. 
"Don't  I  tell  you  everything?  Mrs.  Swink  has 
friends  here,  strivers  like  herself — the  only  kind  of 
people  you  won't  have  anything  to  do  with.  But 
I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  call.  Perhaps  you'll  be 
able—" 

"She  won't  want  to  know  me.  I'll  be  no  use 
to  her.  I  can't  help  her  in  any  way,  and  people 
like  that  are  too  keen  to  waste  time  on  people  like 
me.  I  don't  give  parties." 

"But  Kitty  does.  I  don't  know  how  you'll  go 
about  it,  but  you'll  find  a  way  to — to  make  the 
girl  understand  she  mustn't  marry  Harrie,  or  cer- 
tainly not  for  some  time.  I  feel  sorry  for  the 
child,  but—" 

"And  the  other  girl — the  little  cashier-girl? 
What  about  her?" 

For  a  moment  Selwyn  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand. "Oh,  that  girl!  I  don't  think  there'll  be 
any  trouble  from  her.  She  doesn't  seem  that  sort. 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

Forget  her.  You  can't  do  anything.  I've  tried 
and  failed." 

"I  may  fail,  but  I  haven't  tried.  You  dispose 
of  her  as  if  she  didn't  count." 

"What  can  I  do?  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned 
her."  Selwyn's  forehead  ridged  frowningly,  and, 
taking  out  his  watch,  he  looked  at  it,  took  up  his 
hat  and  coat,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Thank  you  for  letting  me  talk  to  you.  And 
don't  worry  about  the  other  girl.  You  can't  do 
anything." 

"Perhaps  I  can't,  but  you  said  just  now  one 
of  the  many  things  you  couldn't  understand  in 
women  was  their  disregard  of  other  women.  That 
Mildred  would  probably  give  the  girl  no  thought. 
The  rich  girl,  you  meant." 

"Well—"  Selwyn  waited.  "I  did  say  it,  but 
I  don't  see  what  you're  getting  at." 

"That  sometimes  women  do  remember  the 
woman  who  has  to  pay — the  price;  do  give  a 
thought  to  the  girl  who  is  left  to  pay  it  alone. 
Come  to-morrow — no,  not  to-morrow.  G6me  next 
week.  It  will  take  Mrs.  Mundy  until  then  to — " 

"Mrs.  Mundy  has  nothing  to  do  with  Miss 
Swink.  The  other  girl,  I  told  you,  can  take  care 
of  herself.  You  mustn't  look  into  that  side  of  it. 
I'll  attend  to  that,  do  what  is  necessary.  It's  only 
about  her  you  seem  to  be  thinking." 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"I'm  thinking  about  both  girls,  the  poor  one  and 
the  rich  one.  But  the  rich  girl  has  a  million-dollar 
mother  to  look  after  her.  Good-by,  and  come 
Tuesday.  I  forgot — What  is  the  girl's  name,  the 
little  cashier-girl's?" 

"Etta — Etta  something."  Selwyn  made  effort 
to  think,  then  took  a  note-book  out  of  his  pocket 
and  looked  at  it.  "Etta  Blake  is  her  name.  I 
wish  you'd  forget  her.  There  are  some  things  one 
can't  talk  about,  but  certainly  you  know  I  will  do 
what  is  right  if  Harrie — '  His  face  darkened. 

"I  know  you  will,  but  sometimes  a  girl  needs  a 
woman  to  do — what  is  right.  She's  such  a  little 
thing,  and  so  young.  Come  Tuesday  evening  at 
eight  o'clock." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EtTE  that  evening  I  had  a  talk  with  Mrs. 
Mundy.  I  told  her  where  Etta  Blake  lived, 
that  is,  where  she  could  find  the  house  from  which 
I  had  seen  her  come  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  the 
house  whose  address  had  been  given  me  by  Selwyn, 
and  the  next  morning  she  was  to  go  and  see  her; 
but  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Mundy  was  ill.  Acute 
indigestion  was  what  the  doctor  called  it,  but  to 
Bettina  and  me  it  seemed  a  much  more  dreadful 
thing,  and  for  the  time  all  thought  of  other  matters 
was  put  aside  and  held  in  abeyance. 

With  Bettina's  help  I  tried  to  do  Mrs.  Mundy's 
work,  but  my  first  breakfast  was  not  an  artistic 
product.  I  shall  never  know  how  to  cook.  I 
don't  want  to  know  how.  I  don't  like  to  cook. 
There  were  many  other  things  I  could  do,  however, 
and  though  Mrs.  Mundy  wept,  being  weak  from 
nausea,  at  my  refusal  to  leave  undone  the  usual 
cleaning,  I  did  it  with  pride  and  delight  in  the 
realization  that,  notwithstanding  little  practice,  I 
could  do  it  very  well.  I  am  a  perfect  dish-washer, 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

and   I  can  make  up  beds  as  well  as  a  trained 
nurse. 

Mrs.  Mundy  is  much  better  to-day  and  to-mor- 
row she  will  be  up.  Three  days  in  bed  is  for  her 
an  unusual  and  depressing  experience,  and  her 
sunny  spirit  drooped  under  the  combined  effects 
of  over-indulgence  in  certain  delectable  dishes,  and 
inability  to  do  her  usual  work. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  how  much  char- 
acter a  person's  got,  it's  gone  when  sick-stomach 
is  a-wrenching  of  'em."  Mrs.  Mundy  groaned 
feebly.  ' '  I  'ain't  had  a  spell  like  this  since  Bettina 
was  a  baby.  Pig  feet  did  it.  When  they're  fried 
in  batter  I'm  worse  than  the  thing  I'm  eating.  I 
et  three,  and  I  never  can  eat  more  than  two.  And 
to  think  you  had  to  do  everything  for  Lillie  Pierce, 
to  get  her  off  in  time!  The  doctor  says  she  can't 
live  many  months.  Outside  the  doctor,  and 
Nurse  White  and  Mr.  Guard,  don't  anybody  know 
she's  been  here.  I  reckon  it  ain't  necessary  to 
mention  it.  People  are  so — 

"  People-ish !  They  love  to  stick  pins  in  other 
people!  It's  tyranny — the  fear  of  what  people 
will  think  about  us,  say  about  us,  do  about  us! 
I'm  going  to  give  myself  a  present  when  I  get  like 
Mr.  Guard  and  can  tell  some  people  to  go  —  go 
anywhere  they  please,  if  it's  where  I  won't  meet 

158 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

them.  Are  you  all  right  now  and  ready  for  your 
nap?" 

Mrs.  Mundy  nodded,  looked  at  me  with  some- 
thing of  anxiety  in  her  eyes  as  I  straightened  the 
counterpane  of  her  spotless  bed;  but  she  said 
nothing  more,  and,  lowering  the  shades  at  the  win- 
dows lest  the  sunlight  bother  her,  I  went  out  of 
the  room  and  left  her  to  go  asleep. 

I  am  glad  of  the  much  work  of  these  past  few 
days.  It  has  kept  me  from  thinking  too  greatly  of 
what  Selwyn  told  me  of  Harrie,of  the  girl  to  whom 
he  is  engaged,  and  of  the  little  cashier-girl  whose 
terror-filled  face  is  ever  with  me.  It  has  kept  me, 
also,  from  dwelling  too  constantly  on  the  message 
Lillie  Pierce  sent  by  me  to  the  women  of  clean 
and  happy  worlds.  For  herself  there  was  no  plea 
for  pity  or  for  pardon,  no  effort  at  palliation  or 
excuse.  But  with  strength  born  of  bitter  knowl- 
edge she  begged,  demanded,  that  I  do  something 
to  make  good  women  understand  that  worlds  like 
hers  will  never  pass  away  if  men  alone  are  left  to 
rid  earth  of  them.  Ceaselessly  I  keep  busy  lest  I 
realize  too  clearly  what  such  a  message  means.  I 
shrink  from  it,  appalled  at  what  it  may  imply.  I  am 
a  coward.  As  great  a  coward  as  the  women  whose 
unconcern  I  have  of  late  been  so  condemning. 

Yesterday  Lillie  went  away.  Mr.  Guard  took 
her  to  the  mountains  where  a  woman  he  used  to 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

know  in  the  days  of  his  mission  work  will 
take  care  of  her.  He  is  coming  back  to-morrow. 
The  sense  of  comfort  that  his  coming  means  is 
beyond  analysis  or  definition.  Only  once  or  twice 
in  a  lifetime  does  one  meet  a  man  of  David 
Guard's  sort,  and  whatever  my  mistakes,  whatever 
my  impulses  and  lack  of  judgment  may  lead  me 
to  do,  he  will  never  be  impatient  with  me.  We 
have  had  several  long  and  frank  and  friendly  talks 
since  the  day  he  brought  Lillie  in  to  Mrs.  Mundy, 
and  if  Scarborough  Square  did  no  more  for  me 
than  to  give  me  his  friendship  I  should  be  forever 
in  its  debt. 

Early  this  morning  I  had  a  dream  I  have  been 
trying  all  day  to  forget.  Through  the  first  part 
of  the  night  sleep  had  been  impossible.  The 
haunting  memory  of  Lillie 's  eyes  could  not  be 
shut  out,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  made  the 
stillness  of  the  room  unendurable.  I  tried  to  read, 
to  write,  to  do  anything  but  think.  I  fought, 
resisted;  refused  to  face  what  I  did  not  want  to 
see,  to  listen  to  what  I  did  not  want  to  hear;  and 
not  until  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  did  I  fall  asleep. 

In  my  dream  Lillie  was  in  front  of  me,  the  bit  of 
wall-flower  in  her  hands,  and  gaspingly  she  cried 
out  that  something  should  be  done. 

"It  can  never  be  made  clean,  the  world  we 
women  live  in.  But  there  should  never  be  such 

1 60 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

worlds.    Good  women  pretend  they  do  not  know. 
They  do  not  want  to  know!" 

"But,  Lillie"  —  I  tried  to  hold  her  twisting, 
writhing  hands.  "There  is  much  that  has  been 
done.  Some  women  do  know,  and  homes  and 
institutions  and  societies — " 

"Homes  and  institutions  and  societies!"  She 
drew  her  hands  away  in  scornful  gesture.  "They 
are  poultice  and  plaster  things.  They  are  for  sur- 
face sores,  and  the  trouble  is  in  the  blood.  To 
cure,  to  cleanse,  undo  the  evil  of  our  world  is  not 
in  human  power.  It's  the  root  of  the  tree  that 
must  be  killed.  You  can  cut  off  its  top  for  a 
thousand  years  and  it  will  come  back  again. 
Women  have  got  to  go  deeper  than  that  and  make 
men  know  that  they'll  be  damned  the  same  as  we 
if  they  sin  the  same  as  we  do." 

She  was  slipping  from  me  and  I  tried  to  hold 
her  back.  "Tell  me  what  women  must  do!  Tell 
me  where  they  fail !"  In  terror  I  caught  her  hands. 
"Do  not  go  until  you  tell  me — " 

In  misty  grayness  she  was  vanishing.  "When 
women  make  their  sons  know  there  is  no  less  of 
sin  and  shame  in  sinful,  shameful  lives  for  them 
than  for  their  sisters  our  worlds  will  pass  away. 
You've  got  to  stop  the  evil  at  the  source.  Men 
don't  do  what  women  won't  stand  for.  Tell 
women  that — " 

161 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

She  was  gone  and,  waking,  I  found  I  was  sitting 
up  in  bed,  my  hands  outstretched. 

I  had  a  note  from  Selwyn  to-day  telling  me  the 
Swinks  had  come  and  are  at  the  Melbourne. 
Harrie  is  not  well. 

Kitty  telephoned  me  late  yesterday  afternoon 
that  Billie  had  an  engagement  for  a  club  dinner  of 
some  sort,  and  she  had  appendicitis,  or  something 
that  felt  like  it,  and  wouldn't  I  please  come  up 
and  have  supper  with  her  in  her  sitting-room. 
There  was  something  she  wanted  to  talk  to  me 
about. 

Kitty  has  a  remarkable  voice.  It  is  capable  of 
every  variation  of  appeal.  I  went.  Mrs.  Crimm 
came  in  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Mundy. 

The  appendicitis  possibility  was  not  disturbing, 
and  in  a  very  lovely  pink  velvet  negligee,  with 
cap  and  slippers  and  stockings  to  match,  Kitty 
was  waiting  for  me.  She  is  peculiarly  skilful  in 
the  settings  she  arranges  for  her  pretty  self,  and 
as  I  looked  at  her  they  seemed  far-away  things, 
the  world  of  Scarborough  Square,  with  its  daily 
struggle  for  daily  bread,  and  the  world  of  Lillie 
Pierce,  with  its  evil  and  polluting  life,  and  the 
world  of  the  little  cashier-girl  with  its  temptations 
and  denials.  I  tried  to  put  them  from  me.  The 

162 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

evening  was  to  be  Kitty's.  She  took  her  luxuries 
as  the  birds  of  the  air  take  light  and  sunshine. 
Unearned,  they  seemed  a  right. 

She  did  not  like  the  dress  I  had  on.  It's  a  per- 
fectly good  dress. 

"I'll  certainly  be  glad  when  you  stop  wearing 
black.  It's  too  severe  for  you;  that  is,  black 
crepe  de  chine  is.  You're  too  tall  and  slender  for 
it,  though  it  gives  you  a  certain  distinction.  Did 
Selwyn  send  you  those  violets?" 

"He  did.  Where's  your  pain?  What  did  the 
doctor  say  was  the  matter?" 

"I  telephoned  him  not  to  come.  I  haven't  got 
any  pain.  It's  gone.  I  just  wanted  you  by  my- 
self." Kitty  settled  herself  more  comfortably  in 
her  cushion-filled  chair  and  stretched  her  feet  on 
the  stool  in  front  of  her.  "Why  didn't  you  come 
to  Grace  Peterson's  luncheon  yesterday?" 

"I  had  something  else  more  important  to  do. 
Grace  knew  I  wasn't  coming  when  she  asked  me. 
Society  and  Scarborough  Square  can't  be  served 
at  the  same  time."  I  smiled.  "During  the  days 
of  apprenticeship  only  a  half -hour  is  allowed  for 
lunch.  Did  you  have  a  good  time?" 

"Of  course  I  didn't.  Who  does  with  an  anxious 
hostess?  One  of  the  guests  was  an  out-of-town 
person  who  used  to  know  you  well.  She  wanted 
to  hear  all  about  you  and  everybody  told  her 

163 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

something  different.  All  that's  necessary  is  to 
mention  your  name  and — " 

"The  play's  begun.  To  be  an  inexhaustible 
subject  of  chatter  is  to  serve  a  purpose  in  life. 
I'd  prefer  a  nobler  one,  still —  Who  was  my 
inquiring  friend?" 

"I've  forgotten  her  name.  She  was  the  most 
miserable-looking  woman  I  ever  saw.  On  any  one 
else  her  clothes  would  have  been  stunning.  Don't 
think  she  and  her  husband  hit  it  off  very  well. 
There's  another  lady  he  finds  more  entertaining 
than  she  is,  and  she  hasn't  the  nerve  to  tell  him 
to  quit  it  or  go  to  Ballyhack.  Women  make  me 
tired!" 

"They  tire  men,  also.  A  woman  who  accepts 
insult  is  hardly  apt  to  be  interesting.  Tell  me 
about  the  luncheon.  Who  was  at  it?" 

"Same  old  bunch.  Grace  left  out  nothing  that 
could  be  brought  in.  Most  of  the  entertaining 
nowadays  is  a  game  of  show-down,  regular  exhi- 
bitions of  lace  and  silver  and  food  and  flowers 
and  china  and  glass,  and  gorgeous  gowns  and  stu- 
pid people.  I'm  getting  sick  of  them." 

"Why  don't  you  start  a  new  kind?  You  might 
have  your  butler  hand  a  note  to  each  of  your 
guests  on  arriving,  stating  that  all  the  things  other 
people  had  for  their  tables  you  had  for  yours,  but 
only  what  was  necessary  would  be  used.  Then 

164 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

you  might  have  a  good  time.  It's  difficult  to  talk 
down  to  an  excess  of  anything." 

"Wish  I  had  the  nerve  to  do  it!"  Kitty  again 
changed  her  position ;  fixed  more  comfortably  the 
pink-lined,  embroidered  pillows  at  her  back,  and 
looked  at  me  uncertainly.  I  waited.  Presently 
she  leaned  toward  me. 

"People  are  talking  about  you,  Danny.  You 
won't  mind  if  I  tell  you?"  Her  blue  eyes,  greatly 
troubled,  looked  into  mine,  then  away,  and  her 
hand  slipped  into  my  hand  and  held  it  tightly. 
"Sometimes  I  hate  people!  They  are  so  mean, 
so  nasty!" 

"What  are  they  saying?"  I  straightened  the 
slender  fingers  curled  about  mine  and  stroked 
them.  "Only  dead  people  aren't  talked  about. 
What  is  being  said  about  me?" 

"Horrid  things — not  to  me,  of  course.  They'd 
better  not  be!  But — Mrs.  Herbert  came  to  see 
me  yesterday  afternoon.  She  wasn't  at  the  lunch- 
eon and  Grace  got  the  first  rap,  but  most  of  her 
hatefulness  she  took  out  on  you.  She's  worse 
than  a  germ  disease.  I  always  feel  I  ought  to  be 
disinfected  after  I  see  her.  If  she  were  a  leper  she 
wouldn't  be  allowed  at  large,  and  she's  much  more 
deadly.  People  like  that  ought  to  be  locked  up." 

"What  did  she  tell  you  about  me?"  I  smiled  in 
Kitty's  flushed  face,  smiled  also  at  the  remem- 

165 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

brance  of  Alice  Herbert's  would-be  cut  some  time 
ago,  but  I  did  not  mention  it.  "You  oughtn't  to 
be  so  hard  on  her.  She's  crazy." 

"But  crazy  people  are  dangerous.  A  mosquito 
can  kill  a  king,  and  a  king  has  to  be  careful 
about  mosquitoes.  I'm  more  afraid  of  people  than 
I  am  of  insects.  If  you  could  only  label  them — 

"People  label  themselves.  What  did  Alice 
Herbert  say  about  me?" 

"First,  of  course,  how  strange  it  was  that  you 
should  care  to  live  in  Scarborough  Square,  es- 
pecially as  you  were  a  person  who  held  yourself 
so  aloof  from — " 

"People  like  her.  I  do.  What  else  did  she 
say?" 

"That  you  met  all  sorts  of  people,  had  all  sorts 
to  come  and  see  you.  A  trained  nurse  who  is  with 
a  sick  friend  of  her  aunt's  told  her  she'd  heard  you 
let  a — let  a  bad  woman  come  in  your  house." 
Kitty's  voice  trailed  huskily.  ' '  She  said  it  would 
ruin  you  if  things  like  that  got  out.  I  told  her  it 
was  a  lie — it  wasn't  so." 

"It  was  so."  I  held  Kitty's  eyes,  horror-filled 
and  unbelieving.  "She  stayed  with  Mrs.  Mundy 
a  week.  Yesterday  she  went  away  to  the  moun- 
tains— to  die." 

For  a  moment  longer  Kitty  stared  at  me,  and 
in  her  face  crept  "deep  and  crimson  color.  "You 

166 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

mean — that  you  let  a — a  woman  like  that  come 
in  your  house  and  stay  a  week?    Mean — " 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  by  the  fire  in  Kitty's 
sitting-room  with  its  rose-colored  hangings,  its 
mellow  furnishings,  its  soft  burning  logs  on  their 
brass  andirons,  its  elusive  fragrance  of  fresh 
flowers,  and  unsparingly  I  told  her  what  all 
women  should  know.  In  the  twilight  that  of 
which  I  talked  made  pictures  come  and  go  that 
gave  her  understanding  never  glimpsed  before, 
and,  slipping  on  her  knees,  she  buried  her  face, 
shudderingly,  in  my  lap. 

"Is  it  I,  Danny?  Is  it  women  like  me  who 
could  do  something  and  don't?"  she  said,  after  a 
long,  long  while.  "Oh,  Danny,  is  it  I?" 

"It  is  all  of  us."  My  fingers  smoothed  the 
beautiful  brown  hair.  "Every  woman  of  to-day 
who  thinks  there's  a  halo  on  her  head  ought  to 
take  it  off  and  look  at  it.  She  wouldn't  see  much. 
We  like  halos.  We  imagine  we  deserve  them.  And 
we  like  the  pretty  speeches  which  have  spoiled  us. 
What  we  need  is  plain  truth,  Kitty.  We  need  to 
see  without  confusion.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  we 
are  not  the  colossal  failure  of  life — we  women  who 
have  hardly  begun  to  use  the  power  God  put  in 
our  hands  when  He  made  us  the  mothers  of  sons 
and  daughters — " 

167 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"But  we've  only  been  educated  such  a  little 
while — most  of  us  aren't  educated  yet.  I'm  not." 
Her  arms  on  my  knees,  Kitty  looked  up  in  my 
face,  in  hers  the  dawning  light  of  vision  long  de- 
layed. "Men  haven't  wanted  us  to  think.  They 
want  to  think  for  us." 

"But  ours  is  the  first  chance  at  starting  men  to 
thinking  right.  Through  babyhood  and  boyhood 
they  are  ours.  If  all  women  could  understand — 

"All  women  haven't  got  anything  to  under- 
stand with  even  if  they  wanted  to  understand. 
Some  who  have  sense  don't  want  responsibility." 
Kitty  bit  her  lip.  "I  haven't  wanted  it.  It's  ?o 
much  easier  not — not  to  have  it.  And  now — now 
you've  put  it  on  me." 

"When  women  know,  they  will  not  shirk.  So 
many  of  us  are  children  yet.  We've  got  to  grow 
up."  Stooping,  I  kissed  her.  "In  Scarborough 
Square  I've  learned  to  see  it's  a  pretty  waste- 
ful world  I've  lived  in.  And  life  is  short,  Kitty. 
There's  not  a  moment  of  it  to  be  wasted." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AA RS.  MUNDY  cannot  find  Etta  Blake.  She 
** *  went  this  morning  to  the  house  just  oppo- 
site the  box-factory,  but  no  one  is  living  there.  A 
"For  Rent"  sign  is  on  it.  After  trying,  without 
success,  to  find  from  the  families  who  live  in  the 
neighborhood  where  the  people  who  once  occupied 
the  house  have  gone,  she  went  to  the  agent,  but 
from  him  also  she  could  learn  nothing. 

"They  were  named  Banch.  A  man  and  his  wife 
and  three  children  lived  in  the  house,  but  where 
they've  moved  nobody  could  tell  me,  or  give  me 
a  thing  to  go  on.  They  went  away  between  sun-up 
and  sun-down  and  no  one  knows  where."  Mrs. 
Mundy,  who  had  come  to  my  sitting-room  to 
make  report,  before  taking  off  her  coat  and  hat, 
sat  down  in  a  chair  near  the  desk  at  which  I  had 
been  writing,  and  smoothed  the  fingers  of  her 
gloves  with  careful  precision.  She  was  disap- 
pointed and  distressed  that  she  had  so  little  to 
tell  me. 

"I  couldn't  find  a  soul  who'd  ever  heard  of  a 
169 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

girl  named  Etta  Blake.  Poor  people  are  generally 
sociable  and  know  everybody  in  the  neighborhood, 
but  didn't  anybody  know  her.  Mr.  Parke,  the 
agent,  said  the  man  paid  his  rent  regular  and  he 
was  sorry  to  lose  him  as  a  tenant,  but  he  didn't 
know  where  he'd  gone.  If  his  wife  took  boarders 
he  didn't  know  anything  about  it.  The  girl 
might  have  rented  a  room—  Mrs.  Mundy  hesi- 
tated, looked  at  me  uncertainly.  "Shall  I  ask 
Mr.  Crimm  to — to  help  me  find  her?  If  she's  in 
town  he'd  soon  know  where." 

Something  in  her  voice  sent  the  blood  to  my  face. 
"You  mean — oh  no,  you  cannot,  do  not  mean — 

"I  don't  know.  It's  usually  the  end.  The  only 
one  they  have  to  come  to  when  a  man  like  Mr. 
Thome's  brother  makes  a  girl  lose  her  head  about 
him.  After  he  tires  of  her,  or  when  he's  afraid 
there  may  be  trouble,  there's  apt  to  be  a  row  and 
he  quits.  When  he's  gone  the  girl  generally  ends 
— down  there."  Mrs.  Mundy 's  hand  made  move- 
ment over  her  shoulder.  "Respectable  people 
don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  girls  like 
that,  and  it's  hard  for  them  to  get  work.  After 
a  while  they  give  up  and  go  to  what's  the  only 
place  some  of  them  have  to  go  to.  Would  you 
mind  if  I  ask  Mr.  Crimm?" 

I  shook  my  head.    "No,  I  would  not  mind." 

Going  over  to  a  window,  I  opened  it,  and  as  the 
170 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

sunshine  fell  upon  my  face  it  seemed  impossible 
that  such  things  as  Mrs.  Mundy  feared  were  true. 
But  I  knew  now  they  were  true,  and  shiveringly 
I  twisted  my  hands  within  my  arms  as  if  to  warm 
my  heart,  which  was  cold  with  a  nameless  some- 
thing it  was  difficult  to  define.  On  one  side  of  me 
the  little,  elfish  creature  with  her  frightened  eyes 
and  short,  curly  hair  seemed  standing;  on  the 
other,  the  girl  to  whom  Harrie  was  engaged.  I 
could  not  help  them.  Could  not  help  Selwyn. 
Could  help  no  one!  If  David  Guard — at  thought 
of  him  the  clutch  at  my  throat  lessened.  David 
Guard  could  help  them.  He  had  promised  to 
come  whenever  I  sent  for  him,  and  to  him  I  could 
talk  as  to  no  one  else  on  earth. 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Crimm  to-night.  It  won't  be 
new  to  him — the  finding  of  a  girl  who's  disap- 
peared. He's  found  too  many.  I'll  be  careful 
what  I  tell  him,  and  Mr.  Thome  needn't  worry." 
Mrs.  Mundy  got  up.  "Didn't  you  say  he  was 
coming  this  afternoon?" 

"He  is  coming  to-night.  I  am  going  out  this 
afternoon." 

Mrs.  Mundy  walked  slowly  to  the  door.  She 
would  have  enjoyed  talking  longer,  but  I  could 
not  talk.  A  sense  of  involvement  with  things 
that  frightened  and  repelled,  with  things  of  which 
I  had  hitherto  been  irresponsibly  ignorant,  was 

171 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

bewildering  me  and  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  I  knew 
I  was  a  coward,  but  there  was  no  special  need  of 
her  knowing  it. 

I  had  been  honest  in  thinking  I  wanted  to  know 
all  sorts  of  people,  to  see  myself,  and  women  like 
me,  from  the  viewpoint  of  those  denied  my 
opportunities,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  as  a 
possibility  of  Scarborough  Square  that  I  should 
come  in  contact  with  any  of  the  women  of  Lillie 
Pierce's  world.  People  like  that  had  hardly 
seemed  the  human  beings  other  people  were. 
And  now — 

"Tell  Mr.  Crimm  whatever  you  think  best." 
My  back  was  to  Mrs.  Mundy.  "The  girl  is  in 
trouble.  You  must  see  her.  Bring  her  here  if  you 
cannot  go  to  her,  and  try  and  learn  her  side  of 
the  story.  It's  an  old  one,  perhaps,  but  it  isn't 
fair  that — " 

"She  should  be  shoved  into  hell  and  the  lid 
shut  down  to  keep  her  in,  and  the  man  let  alone 
to  go  where  he  pleases.  It  isn't  fair,  but  it's  the 
world's  way,  and  always  will  be  lessen  women 
learn  some  things  they  ought  to  know.  They 
wouldn't  stand  for  some  of  the  things  that  go  on 
if  they  understood  them,  but  they  don't  under- 
stand. They've  been  tongue-tied  and  hand-tied 
so  long,  they  haven't  taken  in  yet  they've  got  to 
do  their  own  untying." 

172 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"It's  a  pretty  lonely  job — and  a  pretty  hard 
one."  I  turned  from  the  window.  Kitty's  auto- 
mobile had  stopped  in  front  of  the  house.  I  was 
to  go  in  it  to  call  on  Mrs.  and  Miss  Swink.  Kitty 
had  insisted  that  I  use  it. 

I  dressed  quickly,  putting  on  my  best  garments, 
but  as  I  got  into  the  car  something  of  the  old  protest 
at  having  to  do  what  I  did  not  want  to  do,  to  go 
where  I  did  not  want  to  go,  came  over  me,  and  I 
was  conscious  of  childish  irritability.  I  did  not 
care  to  know  the  Swinks.  Eternity  wouldn't  be 
long  enough,  and  certainly  time  wasn't  to  waste 
on  people  like  that,  and  yet  because  Selwyn  had 
asked  me  to  call  I  was  doing  it.  All  men  are  alike. 
When  they  don't  know  how  to  do  a  thing  that's 
got  to  be  done,  they  tell  a  woman  to  do  it.  It  was 
not  my  business  to  tell  this  Swink  person  arid  her 
daughter  that  they  should  be  careful  concerning 
matrimonial  alliances.  I  would  agree  with  them 
that  such  intimation  on  my  part  was  presumptu- 
ous and  I  had  no  intention  of  making  it.  What  I 
was  going  to  do  I  did  not  know,  but  it  was  neces- 
sary to  see  them,  talk  with  them  before  any  sug- 
gestions could  be  made  to  Selwyn  as  to  a  tactful 
handling  of  an  embarrassing  situation;  and  in 
obedience  to  this  primary  requisite  I  was  calling. 

In  their  private  parlor  at  the  Melbourne,  pom- 
pously furnished,  and  bare  of  all  things  that  make 
12  173 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

a  room  reflective  of  personality,  Mrs.  Swink  and 
her  daughter  were  awaiting  me  on  my  arrival,  and 
the  moment  I  met  the  former  all  the  perversity  of 
which  I  am  possessed  rose  up  within  me,  and  for 
the  latter  I  was  conscious  of  sympathy,  based  on 
nothing  save  intuitive  antipathy  to  her  mother. 
Inwardly  I  warned  myself  to  behave,  but  I  wasn't 
sure  I  was  going  to  do  it. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do!"  Mrs.  Swink,  a  fat, 
florid,  frizzy  person,  waddled  toward  me  with  out- 
stretched and  bejeweled  hands,  and  took  mine  in 
hers.  ' '  Mr.  Thome  told  us  you  would  certainly  call, 
and  we've  been  waiting  for  you  ever  since  he  told 
us.  Charmed  to  meet  you!  This  is  my  daugh- 
ter Madeleine.  Where's  Madeleine?"  She  turned 
her  short,  red  neck,  bound  with  velvet,  and  looked 
behind  her.  "Oh,  here  she  is!  Madeleine,  this 
is  Miss  Wreath.  You  know  all  about  Miss 
Wreath,  who's  gone  to  such  a  queer  place  to  live. 
Harrie  told  us."  Two  sharp  little  eyes  sunk  in 
nests  of  embracing  flesh  winked  confidentially  at 
first  me  and  then  her  daughter.  "Yes,  indeed,  we 
know  all  about  you.  Sit  down.  Madeleine,  push 
a  chair  up  for  Miss  Wreath." 

"Heath,  mother!"  The  girl  called  Madeleine 
turned  her  pretty,  dissatisfied  face  toward  her 
mother  and  then  looked  at  me.  "She  never  gets 
names  right.  She  just  hits  at  them  and  says  the 

174 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

first  thing  that  comes  to  her  mind."'  Pulling  a 
large  chair  close  to  a  table,  on  which  was  a  vase 
of  American  Beauty  roses,  she  waited  for  me  to 
take  it,  then  went  over  to  the  window  and  sat 
beside  it. 

"Well,  everybody's  got  a  mental  weakness.'* 
Upright  in  a  blue-brocaded  chair,  elbows  on  its 
gilt  arms,  mother  Swink  surveyed  me  with  scru- 
tinizing calculation,  and  as  she  appraised  I  ap- 
praised also.  Full-bosomed  of  body  and  short  of 
leg,  she  looked  close  kin  to  a  frog  in  her  tight-fitting 
purple  gown  with  its  iridescent  trimmings,  and  low- 
cut  neck;  and  from  her  silver-buckled  slippers  to 
the  crimped  and  russet-colored  transformation  on 
her  head,  which  had  slipped  somewhat  to  one  side, 
my  eyes  went  up  and  then  went  down,  and  I  knew 
if  Harrie  ever  married  her  daughter  his  punish- 
ment would  begin  on  earth. 

"Yes,  indeed,  everybody's  got  a  mental  weak- 
ness, and  I'm  thankful  mine's  no  worse  than  for- 
getting names.  I  ought  to  remember  yours, 
though.  It  makes  you  think  of  funerals  and 
weddings  and  things  like  that.  I  love  names 
which—" 

"Her  name  is  Heath,  mother!    Not  Wreath." 

' '  Oh  yes — of  course !  This  certainly  is  a  beauti- 
ful day.  If  El  Paso  hadn't  been  so  far  away  we'd 
have  brought  one  of  our  cars  with  us,  but  I  don't 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

see  any  sense  spending  all  that  money  when  you 
can  hire  cars  so  cheap  by  the  hour.  Madeleine 
don't  like  to  ride  in  hired  cars.  I  like  any  kind  of 
car." 

So  far  I  had  had  no  opportunity  of  doing  more 
than  bend  my  head,  a  chance  to  speak  not  having 
been  permitted  me,  but,  at  her  mother's  pause  for 
breath,  the  girl  at  the  window  looked  down  upon 
the  street  and  then  turned  her  face  toward  me. 
"That's  a  pretty  car  you  came  in.  Can  you  drive 
it  yourself?" 

"I  have  no  car.  That's  Kitty's — I  mean  Mrs. 
McBryde's.  That  reminds  me.  I  have  a  message 
from  her.  She  could  not  call  this  afternoon,  but 
she  asks  me  to  say  she  hopes  you  can  both  come  in 
Thursday  afternoon  and  have  tea  with  her.  She  is 
always  at  home  on  Thursdays  and — 

"Yes,  indeed;  we'll  be  glad  to  come."  Mrs. 
Swink  took  up  Kitty's  card,  which  had  been  sent 
up  with  mine,  and  looked  at  it  through  her  lor- 
gnette, suspended  around  her  neck  by  a  chain 
studded  with  amethysts,  large  and  small.  "We'll 
come  with  pleasure.  Won't  we,  Madeleine?  Shall 
we  write  and  tell  her?" 

"Of  course  not,  mother.  Didn't  you  just  hear 
Miss  Heath  say  it  was  her  regular  'at  home'  day? 
You  don't  write  notes  for  things  like  that."  Miss 
S  wink's  eyes  again  turned  in  my  direction.  "I'm 

176 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

much  obliged,  but  I  don't  think  I  can  come.  I've 
an  engagement  for  Thursday." 

"If  it's  with  Harrie,  he  won't  mind  waiting 
awhile."  With  unconcealed  eagerness  Mrs.  Swink 
twisted  herself  in  her  tight  and  too-embracing 
chair,  for  the  moment  forgetting,  seemingly,  that 
I  was  a  hearing  person.  "You  can't  afford  to  miss 
a  chance  like  that.  You'll  meet  the  best  people. 
Harrie  can  stay  to  dinner.  I'll  get  tickets  for  the 
theatre." 

"He  won't  come  to  dinner.  I  asked  him.  Says 
he's  sick."  The  girl's  lips  curled  slightly.  "He's 
always  sick  when — " 

"Madeleine!"  The  sudden  change  in  Mrs. 
S wink's  voice  was  beyond  belief,  and  with  a  shrug 
of  her  shoulders  the  girl  again  looked  out  of  the 
window.  I  was  making  discoveries  with  unex- 
pected rapidity,  discoveries  that  were  filling  me 
with  speculation  and  promising  conclusions  that 
were  at  variance  with  Selwyn's,  and  for  a  moment 
the  uncomfortable  silence,  following  the  sharp 
ejaculation,  was  unbroken  by  me  in  the  realization 
of  my  unwilling  participation  in  a  bit  of  family 
revelation,  and  also  by  inability  to  think  of  any- 
thing to  say. 

' '  I  hope  you  can  come. ' '  My  tone  was  but  feebly 
urging.  "Everybody  has  such  a  good  time  at 
Kitty's.  I  hope,  too,  you  are  going  to  like  our 

177 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

city."  I  looked  from  mother  to  daughter  as  I 
uttered  the  usual  formulas  for  strangers.  "This 
is  not  your  first  visit?" 

"Oh  no — we've  been  here  several  times  before. 
We  like  it  very  much.  It's  so  distinguay  and  all 
that."  Mrs.  Swink's  hands  went  to  her  head  and 
she  patted  her  transformation,  but  failed  to 
straighten  it.  "I  was  born  in  Alabama,  and  Mr. 
Swink  in  Missouri,  and  Madeleine  in  Texas,  so  we 
feel  kin  to  all  Southerners  and  at  home  anywhere 
in  the  South;  but  I  like  this  city  best  of  any  in  it. 
Some  day,  I  reckon,  we'll  live  here."  Her  voice 
was  significant  and  again  she  looked  at  her  daugh- 
ter, but  her  daughter  did  not  look  at  her. 

"We  think  it  a  very  nice  city,  but  I  suppose  I'd 
love  any  place  in  which  I  had  to  live.  That  is,  I'd 
try  to.  You  have  old  friends  here,  I  believe,  and 
of  course  you'll  make  new  ones."  My  voice  was 
even  less  affirmative  than  interrogatory.  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  saying.  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

' '  Yes,  indeed.  That's  what  we  expect  to  do.  We 
don't  know  a  great  many  people  here.  Mrs.  Had- 
den  Cressy  and  I  are  old  friends,  but  we  don't  see 
much  of  each  other.  I  suppose  you  know  the 
Cressys?" 

"I  know  of  them  very  well.  They  are  among 
our  most  valuable  people.  I  have  often  wanted  to 

178 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

know  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cressy.  Their  son,  Tom,  I 
used  to  see  often  as  a  boy,  but  of  late  I  rarely 
come  across  him.  What's  become  of  him?  He 
was  one  of  the  nicest  boys  I  ever  knew." 

Mrs.  Swink's  hands  made  expressive  gesture, 
but  the  girl  at  the  window  gave  no  sign  of  hearing 
me.  In  her  face,  however,  I  saw  color  creep,  saw 
also  that  she  bit  her  lips. 

"Nobody  knows  what  he  does  with  himself." 
Mrs.  Swink  sighed.  "After  all  the  money  his 
father  spent  on  his  education,  and  after  everybody 
took  him  up,  he  dropped  out  of  society  and  stuck 
at  his  business  as  if  he  didn't  have  a  cent  in  the 
world.  He  hasn't  any  ambition.  He  could  go 
with  the  most  fashionable  people  in  town,  if  his 
parents  can't,  but  he  won't  do  it.  He  must  be  a 
great  disappointment  to  hjs  parents." 

With  a  slow  movement  of  her  shoulders,  Miss 
Swink  turned  and  looked  at  her  mother,  in  her 
eyes  that  which  made  me  sit  up.  What  the  look 
implied  I  was  unable  altogether  to  understand, 
but  I  could  venture  a  guess  at  it,  and  on  the  ven- 
ture I  spoke: 

"He's  the  pride  of  their  life,  I've  been  told. 
Any  parents  would  be  proud  of  such  a  son — that 
is,  if  they  were  the  kind  of  parents  a  son  could  be 
proud  of.  I'd  like  to  see  Tom.  I  used  to  be  very 
fond  of  him  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  lived  just 

179 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

back  of  us  and  he  and  Kitty  were  great  friends  as 
children.  I'm  afraid  he's  forgotten  me,  however." 

"No,  he  hasn't — "  Miss  Swink  stopped  as 
abruptly  as  she  began,  but  the  color  that  had 
crept  into  her  face  at  mention  of  Tom  Cressy's 
name  now  crimsoned  it,  and  again  she  turned  her 
head  away.  In  her  eyes,  however,  I  had  caught 
the  gratitude  flashed  to  me,  and  quickly  I  decided 
I  must  see  her  alone,  talk  to  her  alone;  and  so 
absorbed  was  I  in  wondering  how  I  could  do  it 
that  only  vaguely  did  I  hear  Mrs.  Swink,  who  was 
telling  me  of  various  engagements  already  made, 
of  the  difficulty  of  getting  in  what  had  to  be  gotten 
in  between  being  manicured  and  marcelled  and 
massaged  and  chiropodized  and  tailored  and  dress- 
makered,  and  had  she  not  been  so  interested  in 
the  telling  she  would  have  discovered  I  was  not 
at  all  interested  in  the  hearing.  She  did  not  dis- 
cover. 

When  for  the  third  time  I  saw  Miss  Swink 
glance  at  the  watch  upon  her  wrist,  and  then  out 
of  the  window,  I  knew  she  was  waiting  for  some 
one  to  pass.  It  wasn't  Harrie.  There  was  no  ne- 
cessity for  furtive  watching  for  Harrie  to  pass. 
The  latter's  plaint  of  sickness  was  evidently  not 
convincing  to  the  girl.  I  looked  at  the  clock  on 
the  mantel.  I  had  been  in  the  room  twenty-seven 
minutes,  but  I  didn't  agree  with  Selwyn  that  Miss 

1 80 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Swink  was  in  love  with  his  brother.  Her  engage- 
ment to  him  was  due,  I  imagined,  not  so  much  to 
her  literalness  as  to  her  mother's  management. 
An  unholy  desire  to  demonstrate  that  the  latter 
was  not  of  a  scientific  kind  possessed  me,  and 
quickly  my  mind  worked. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WITH  eyes  apparently  on  Mrs.  Swink,  I 
missed  no  movement  of  her  daughter,  and 
when  presently  I  saw  her  put  her  elbow  on  the 
window-sill  and  wipe  her  lips  with  her  handker- 
chief, and  then  make  movement  as  if  to  brush 
something  away,  I  got  up,  made  effort  to  say  good- 
by  unhurriedly  to  her  mother,  and  went  over  to 
the  girl.  As  I  held  out  my  hand  I  glanced  out  of 
the  window.  Exactly  opposite,  and  looking  up  at 
it,  was  Tom  Cressy,  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips. 

I  took  the  hand  she  held  toward  me  in  both  of 
mine  and  something  in  her  eyes,  something  both 
mutinous  and  pleading,  filled  me  with  sympathy 
I  should  not  have  felt,  perhaps.  She  was  only 
nineteen,  and  her  mother  was  obviously  trying  to 
make  her  marry  Harrie  when  she  probably  loved 
Tom.  It  was  all  so  weak  and  so  wicked,  so  sordid 
and  stupid,  that  I  felt  like  Kitty  when  with  Alice 
Herbert.  I  needed  disinfecting.  I  would  have  to 
get  away  before  I  said  things  I  shouldn't. 

"Your  mother  says  the  masseuse  comes  this 
182 


PEOPLE   LIKE    THAT 

afternoon.  Can't  you  take  a  drive  with  me  while 
she  is  here?"  I  turned  to  Mrs.  Swink.  "You  will 
not  mind  if  she  leaves  you  for  a  little  while?  It 
is  too  lovely  to  stay  indoors." 

"No,  indeed,  I  won't  mind.  I'll  be  glad  to  have 
her  go  if  she'll  do  it.  Lately  she  won't  do  any- 
thing but  sit  at  that  window."  Mrs.  Swink,  who 
had  gotten  out  of  her  chair  with  difficulty,  turned 
to  her  daughter,  blinking  her  little,  near-sighted 
eyes  at  her  as  if  she  were  beyond  all  human  un- 
derstanding; and  the  fretfulness  of  her  tone  she 
made  no  effort  to  control.  "She's  that  restless 
and  hard  to  please  and  hard  to  interest  in  anything 
that  she  nearly  wears  me  out.  Girls  didn't  do  like 
that  when  I  was  young.  If  I'd  had  a  hundredth 
part  of  what  she's  got — " 

"What's  the  use  of  having  things  you  don't 
want?"  Miss  Swink's  shoulders  made  resentful 
movement;  then  she  turned  to  me,  for  a  moment 
hesitated. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  asking  me,  but  I 
can't  go  this  afternoon.  I  need  exercise.  If  I 
don't  walk  a  great  deal  I — " 

"I'd  much  rather  walk.  I  love  to  walk."  I 
must  know  why  she  was  meeting  Tom  without  her 
mother's  knowledge.  "I'll  send  the  car  home  and 
we'll  walk  together.  It  isn't  often  I  have  an 
afternoon  without  something  that  must  be  done 

183 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

in  it.  I'll  wait  here  while  you  get  your  hat  and 
coat." 

Into  the  girl's  face  came  flush  that  spread  slowly 
to  the  temples,  and  uncertainly  she  looked  at  me. 
Steadily  my  eyes  held  hers  and  after  half  a  mo- 
ment she  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
Coming  back,  she  followed  me  into  the  hall  and 
to  the  elevator,  but,  eyes  on  the  gloves  she  was 
fastening,  she  said  nothing  until  we  reached  the 
street.  On  the  corner  opposite  us  Tom  Cressy 
was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  a  cigar-shop,  and 
as  he  saw  the  car  dismissed,  saw  us  cross  the 
street  and  come  toward  him,  into  his  honest,  if 
not  handsome,  face  came  puzzled  incredulity. 
Not  until  in  front  of  him  did  I  give  evidence  of 
seeing  him;  then  I  stopped. 

"Why,  Tom  Cressy!"  I  held  out  my  hand  and, 
as  he  took  it,  I  noticed  the  one  holding  his  hat 
was  not  entirely  steady.  "It's  ages  since  I've 
seen  you,  Tom.  You  know  Miss  Swink,  I  believe. ' ' 
I  pretended  not  to  see  their  formal  and  somewhat 
frightened  bow.  "We're  going  to  walk.  Can't 
you  go  with  us?  Come  on.  We're  going  to  the 
park." 

Slipping  my  arm  through  Madeleine's,  I  caught 
step,  and  on  the  other  side  of  her  Tom  did  like- 
wise, hands  in  his  pockets,  and  into  both  faces 
came  glow  that  illuminated  them  and  enlightened 

184 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

me.  At  the  end  of  our  walk  I  would  know  pretty 
well  what  I  wanted  to  know. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  we  walked  briskly  and 
talked  along  lines  usually  self -revealing ;  and  by 
the  time  the  hotel  was  again  reached  I  was  quite 
satisfied  concerning  a  complicated  situation  that 
needed  skilful  steering  to  avoid  a  dangerous  and 
disastrous  smash-up. 

"Can't  I  go  home  with  you,  Miss  Dandridge?" 
Tom  twisted  his  hat  nervously.  "It's  too  late 
for  you  to  go  so  far  by  yourself.  Please  let  me  go 
with  you." 

"Of  course  you're  going  with  me.  After  dark 
I'm  only  a  baby  person  and  I  like  a  nice,  big  man 
with  me!  Good-by,  dear."  I  turned  to  Made- 
leine. "Some  afternoon,  if  your  mother  does  not 
mind,  come  down  and  have  tea  with  me  in  Scar- 
borough Square.  Tom  can  come,  too,  and  bring 
you  home.  I'll  telephone  you  one  day  next 
week." 

With  a  nod  I  walked  away,  but  not  before  I  saw 
a  flash  of  joy  pass  between  two  faces  which  were 
raised  to  each  other,  and,  guiltily,  I  wondered  if  I 
had  again  done  something  I  shouldn't.  I  was 
always  doing  it.  Hurrying  on  with  Tom,  I  talked 
of  many  things,  but  at  my  door  I  turned  to  him 
and  held  out  my  hand. 

"I  haven't  any  right  to  ask  you,  but  I'm  going 
185 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

to  ask  you.  You  care  for  each  other  and  some- 
thing is  the  matter.  What  is  it,  Tom?" 

' '  Matter !"  Indignation,  wrathful  and  righteous, 
flared  in  face  and  voice,  and  Tom's  clutch  of  my 
hand  was  more  fervid  than  considerate.  "Her 
mother's  the  matter.  She's  batty  on  the  subject 
of  society  and  position,  and  first  families,  and  fash- 
ion, and  rot  of  that  sort — all  right  in  its  way,  but 
not  her  way.  I'm  not  aristocratic  enough  for 
her.  She  doesn't  want  her  daughter  to  marry  me 
because  we  haven't  any  family  brush  and  coats  of 
arms,  and  don't  belong  to  the  inside  set,  and 
marrying  me  wouldn't  give  Madeleine  what  she 
wants  her  to  have.  Madeleine  don't  want  it. 
She  wants — " 

"You.  I  understand.  Does  Mrs.  Swink  want 
her  to  marry  some  one  else?"  I  hated  my  pre- 
tended ignorance,  but  I  must  know  just  what  he 
knew.  Know  if  Madeleine  had  told  him  of  her 
engagement.  ' '  Who  is  it  she  wants  her  to  marry  ?" 

' '  Harrie  Thorne.  If  she  knew  what  others  knew 
of  Harrie — "  Tom  bit  his  lip.  "I  don't  want  to 
go  into  that,  however.  Not  my  business.  But  if 
she  was  told  she  wouldn't  believe.  She  don't  want 
to  believe.  She  wants  her  daughter  to  marry  what 
Harrie  can  give  her.  An  honored  name  which  he 
has  dishonored." 

Tom  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
1 86 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

forehead,  in  his  eyes  boyish  incomprehension  of 
incomprehensible  things.  "Men  are  wicked,  Miss 
Dandridge,  but  they  wouldn't  do  what  some 
women  do.  They've  got  it  in  their  hands  to  do  a 
lot  they  don't  do — women  have — and  if  it  wasn't 
for  some  of  them,  for  those  we  believe  in,  the  world 
would  go  smash  in  certain  ways  as  far  as  men 
are  concerned.  What's  the  use  of  keeping  straight 
and  living  clean  when  plenty  of  women  don't 
seem  to  care,  or  certainly  don't  ask  too  much 
about  a  man  if  he's  got  money,  or  anything  else 
they  want  for  their  daughters  ?  Mrs.  Swink  is  de- 
termined that  Madeleine  shall  marry  Harrie." 

' '  But  has  Madeleine  no  will  of  her  own  ?  If  she 
permits  her  mother  to  dispose  of  her — " 

"She's  been  disposed  of  since  she  was  a  baby, 
and  resistance  wears  thin  after  a  while,  I  suppose." 
The  tips  of  Tom's  right  shoe  made  a  small  circle 
on  the  brick  pavement,  but  presently  he  looked 
up  at  me.  "It's  pretty  queer  for  me  to  be  telling 
things  like  this,  but  you  always  did  understand  a 
fellow.  I've  often  wished  I  could  come  and  see 
you.  Madeleine  and  I  were  engaged  once." 

"Why  aren't  you  engaged  now?  Tell  me  any- 
thing you  want.  What  happened?" 

' '  Mother  Swink  happened !"  Tom's  words  came 
jerkily.  "She  wouldn't  even  let  me  talk  to  her; 
made  a  devil  of  a  row,  dragged  Madeleine  all 

187 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

around  Europe,  wouldn't  let  her  have  a  letter 
from  me — sent  them  back  herself — and  told  Mad- 
eleine if  she  married  me  she  would  never  speak 
to  me." 

"That  ought  to  have  given  you  courage.  Why 
didn't  you  marry  Madeleine?" 

"I  couldn't  get  hold  of  her.  And,  besides,  she 
got  so  worked  up  that  she  went  all  to  pieces,  and 
I — I  wasn't  patient  enough,  I  guess.  When  they 
came  back  I  managed  to  see  her  once,  but  we  both 
got  mad  and  said  things  we  shouldn't,  and  she 
gave  me  up.  I  heard  Harrie  had  been  giving  her 
a  rush  in  El  Paso,  and  if  Mrs.  Swink  can  manage 
it  she'll  have  Madeleine  engaged  to  him  before 
he  knows  how  it  happened." 

"Are  you  able  to  marry,  Tom?  Is  there  any 
reason  why  you  shouldn't?" 

"No,  there  isn't."  His  head  went  up.  "I  can't 
give  her  what  her  mother  can,  but  I  can  take  care 
of  her  all  right.  On  the  first  of  next  May  father 
makes  me  general  manager  of  the  business.  He 
hasn't  spared  me  because  I  was  his  son,  and  he 
wouldn't  give  me  the  place  until  I'd  earned  it,  but 
I'll  get  it  pretty  soon  now.  I  wish  you  knew  my 
father,  Miss  Dandridge.  There  isn't  any  sort  of 
search-light  he  can't  stand,  and  it  isn't  his  and 
mother's  fault  if  I  can't  stand  them,  also." 

"I  don't  think  they'd  be  uneasy  if  any  were  to 
188 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

be  turned  on.  I  wouldn't.  Good  night,  Tom.  Be 
careful  how  you  meet  Madeleine.  How  many 
times  have  you  seen  her  since  she  got  here?" 

"Just  once  before  this  afternoon."  His  face 
flushed.  "Something  is  the  matter.  She's  not 
like  herself.  Her  mother's  up  to  something." 

"When  you  want  to  see  her,  come  down  here 
and  see  me.  Don't  meet  on  corners  or  in  the  park, 
and — and  the  next  time  you're  engaged  don't  let 
a  girl  think  you're  going  to  wait  indefinitely.  If 
she  isn't  willing  to  marry  you  and  go  to  Pungo  if 
necessary,  she  isn't  the  girl  for  you  to  marry. 
Good  night." 

At  the  door  I  turned.    Tom  was  still  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  staring  at  me,  in  his  face 
slow-dawning  understanding. 
13 


CHAPTER  XX 

AS  Selwyn  and  David  Guard  shook  hands, 
•**•  eagerness  of  desire  must  have  been  in  my 
face,  for  Selwyn,  turning,  seemed  puzzled  by  what 
he  saw.  Going  into  the  room  adjoining  my  sitting- 
room,  I  left  them  alone  for  a  few  moments,  and 
when  I  came  back  I  was  careful  to  keep  out  of  my 
eyes  that  which  as  yet  it  was  not  wise  that  they 
should  tell.  I  have  long  since  learned  a  man  must 
not  be  hurried.  Certainly  not  a  man  of  Selwyn's 
type. 

Sitting  down  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa,  I  nodded  to 
the  men  to  sit  down  also,  but  that  which  they  had 
been  discussing  while  I  was  out  of  the  room  still 
held,  and,  returning  to  it,  they  stood  awhile  longer, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  mantelpiece,  and,  hands 
in  my  lap,  I  watched  them  with  hope  in  my  heart 
of  which  they  did  not  dream. 

They  are  strangely  contrasting — Selwyn  and 
David  Guard.  That  is,  so  far  as  outward  and 
physical  appearance  is  concerned.  But  of  certain 
inward  sympathies,  certain  personal  standards  of 

190 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

life,  certain  intellectual  acceptances  and  rejections, 
they  have  far  more  in  common  than  they  imagine, 
and  to  find  this  basis  upon  which  friendship  might 
take  root  is  a  desire  that  sprang  into  life  upon  seeing 
them  together.  Should  they  ever  be  friends,  they 
would  be  forever  friends.  Of  that  I  am  very  sure. 

By  Selwyn's  side  David  Guard  seemed  smaller, 
frailer,  lest  robust  than  ever,  yet  about  him  was  no 
hint  of  feebleness,  and  his  radiation  of  quiet  force 
was  not  lessened  by  Selwyn's  strength.  His 
clothes  were  shabbier  than  ever,  his  cravat  even 
less  secure  than  usual,  and  the  long  lock  of  hair 
that  fell  at  times  across  his  forehead  was  grayer 
than  formerly,  I  thought,  but  no  externals  could 
dim  the  consciousness  that  he  was  a  man  to  be 
reckoned  with. 

Opposite  him  Selwyn  seemed  the  embodiment 
of  all  he  lacked.  The  well-being  of  his  body,  the 
quiet  excellence  of  his  clothes,  the  unconscious  con- 
fidence, born  of  ability  and  abundance,  the  se- 
curity of  established  position,  marked  him  a  man 
to  whom  the  gods  have  been  good.  But  the  gods 
mock  all  men.  In  Selwyn's  eyes  was  search  for 
something  not  yet  found.  In  David  Guard's  the 
peace  that  comes  of  finding.  I  had  hardly  thought 
of  their  knowing  each  other.  To-night,  quite  by 
accident,  they  had  met.  Selwyn  had  come  accord- 
ing to  agreement.  David  Guard,  to  tell  me  of  a 

191 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

case  in  which  he  was  interested.  He  had  come  be- 
fore Selwyn,  and  at  the  latter's  entrance  had 
started  to  go.  I  would  not  let  him  go.  If  they 
could  be  made  friends — God ! — what  a  power  they 
could  be! 

They  were  discussing  the  war.  The  afternoon's 
reports  had  been  somewhat  more  ghastly  than 
usual. 

"The  twentieth  century  obviously  doesn't  pro- 
pose to  be  outdone  by  any  other  period  of  history, 
recorded  or  unrecorded."  One  hand  in  his  pocket, 
an  elbow  on  the  mantel-shelf,  Selwyn  looked  at 
David  Guard.  "In  the  quarter  of  a  million  years 
in  which  man,  or  what  we  term  man,  has  presum- 
ably lived  on  this  particular  planet,  nothing  so  far 
has  been  discovered,  I  believe,  which  tells  of  such 
abominations  as  are  taking  place  to-day.  It's  an 
interesting  epoch  from  the  standpoint  of  man's 
advance  in  scientific  barbarism." 

"It  deepens,  certainly,  our  respect  for  our  pri- 
meval ancestors."  David  Guard  smiled  grimly. 
"I  understand  there  are  still  tree-dwellers  in  cer- 
tain parts  of  Australia  who  knock  one  another  in  the 
head  when  it  so  pleases  them  to  do.  For  the  set- 
tlement of  difficulties  their  methods  require  much 
less  effort  and  trouble  than  ours.  On  the  whole,  I 
prefer  their  manner  of  fighting.  Each  side  can  see 
what  the  other's  about." 

192 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

"So  do  I."  Curled  up  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa, 
I  had  not  intended  to  speak.  A  woman's  opinions 
on  war  don't  interest  men.  "The  fundamental 
instinct  in  man  to  fight  may  require  a  few  thousand 
more  years  to  yield  to  the  advisability  of  settling 
differences  around  a  table  in  a  council-chamber, 
but  one  can't  tell.  Much  less  time  may  be  neces- 
sary. The  tree-dwellers  and  the  cave-dwellers  and 
the  tent-dwellers  spent  most  of  their  time  scrap- 
ping. We  do  have  intervals  of  peace  in  which  to 
get  ready  to  fight  again." 

"So  did  they,  though  their  intervals  were 
shorter,  perhaps,  owing  to  their  simpler  methods 
of  attack."  Selwyn  laughed.  "In  their  day,  war- 
fare being  largely  a  personal  or  tribal  affair,  little 
time  was  necessary  for  preparation.  With  us  the 
whole  machinery  of  government  is  needed  to  mur- 
der and  maim  and  devastate  and  ruin.  Civiliza- 
tion and  science  and  education  have  complicated 
pretty  hopelessly  the  adjustments  of  disputes,  the 
taking  of  territory,  and  the  acceptance  of  opposing 
ideals.  The  biggest  artillery  and  the  best  brains  for 
butchery  at  present  are  having  their  day.  Hu- 
manity in  the  making  has  its  discouraging  side." 

"It  has!"  David  Guard's  voice  was  emphatic, 
though  he,  too,  laughed.  "If  humanity  made 
claim  to  being  a  finished  product,  there'd  be 
justification  for  more  than  discouragement.  It 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

makes  no  such  claim.  Fists  and  clubs,  and  sling- 
shots and  battle-axes,  are  handier  weapons  than 
guns  and  cannon,  and  armored  air-ships  and  under- 
sea craft,  but  in  the  days1  of  the  former  using,  but 
one  kind  of  army  was  sent  out  to  fight.  To-day  we 
send  out  two." 

"Two?"  Selwyn  looked  puzzled.  "What  two?" 
"One  to  undo,  as  far  as  possible,  the  work  of  the 
other.  The  second  army,  not  the  first,  is  the  test 
of  humanity's  advance;  the  army  that  tries  to 
keep  life  in  the  man  the  other  army  has  tried  to 
kill,  to  give  back  what  has  been  taken  away,  to 
help  what  has  been  hurt,  to  feed  what  has  been 
starved,  to  clothe  what  is  made  naked,  to  build  up 
what  has  been  broken  down.  Each  country  that 
to-day  gives  fight,  equips  and  trains  and  sends  out 
two  contrasting  armies.  They  work  together,  but 
with  opposing  purposes.  The  second  army — 

"Has  a  good  many  women  in  it.  But  it's  so 
stupid,  so  wicked  and  wasteful,  to  fight  over 
things  that  are  rarely  finally  settled  by  fighting. 
It's  bad  business!"  My  hands  twisted  shiver- 
ingly  in  my  lap.  "Do  you  suppose  the  time  will 
ever  come  when  man  will  see  it's  the  animal's  way 
of  getting  what  he  wants,  of  keeping  others  from 
getting  what  he's  got,  of  settling  difficulties  and 
defending  points  of  view?  Do  you  think  he'll  ever 
find  a  better  way?" 

194 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

-'In  a  few  thousand  years — yes."  Selwyn  again 
smiled  and,  changing  his  position,  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire.  "When  we  have  the  same  code 
for  nations  as  for  individuals,  the  same  insistence 
that  what's  wrong  in  and  punishable  for  a  man 
is  wrong  in  and  punishable  for  his  country,  or 
when  we  cease  to  think  of  ourselves  as  group 
people  and  remember  we  are  but  parts  of  a  whole, 
we  may  cease  to  be  fighting  animals.  Not  until 
then,  perhaps.  Personally,  I  think  war  is  a  good 
thing  every  now  and  then.  That  is,  in  the  present 
state  of  our  undevelopment." 

"So  do  I."  David  Guard's  shoulders  made  en- 
ergetic movement.  "War  brings  out  every  evil 
passion  of  which  man  is  possessed,  but  it  has  its 
redemptive  side.  It  clears  away  befogging  soph- 
istries, delivers  from  deadening  indulgences  and 
indifferences;  enables  us  to  see  ourselves,  our  man- 
ner of  life,  our  methods  of  government,  our  obli- 
gations and  our  injustices,  in  perspective  that  re- 
veals what  could,  perhaps,  be  grasped  in  no  other 
way.  It  brings  about  readjustments  and  re- 
accountings,  and  puts  into  operation  new  forces  of 
life,  new  conceptions  of  duty.  It's  a  frightful  way 
of  making  man  get  a  firmer  grip  on  certain  essen- 
tial realizations,  of  taking  in  more  definitely  the 
high  purpose  of  his  destiny,  but  at  times  there 
seems  no  other  way.  I  pray  God  we  may  keep 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

out  of  this,  but  if  it  means  a  stand  for  human 
rights—" 

" We'll  all  enlist !"  The  faces  of  the  men  before 
me  were  sober,  and  quick  fear  made  my  voice  un- 
steady. "War  may  have  its  redemptive  side;  it 
may  at  times  be  necessary  for  the  preservation  of 
honor  and  the  maintenance  of  principle,  but  that's 
because,  I  imagine,  of  our  unpreparedness  as  hu- 
man beings  to — to  be  the  right  sort  of  human 
beings.  When  we  are  there'll  be  no  time  to  kill 
one  another.  We'll  need  it  all  to  help  each  other. 
I  hate  war  as  few  hate  it,  perhaps,  but  should  it 
come  to  us  I'm  as  ready  to  join  my  army  as  you  to 
join  yours."  I  got  up  and  took  the  hand  David 
Guard  was  holding  out  to  me.  "I  wish  you  didn't 
have  to  go.  Must  you?" 

"Must.  Got  an  engagement  at  nine-fifteen. 
I'll  see  you  before  the  week  is  out  about  Clara 
Rudd.  Good  night."  He  turned  to  Selwyn,  shook 
hands,  and  was  gone. 

In  the  corner  of  the  sofa  I  again  sat  down,  and 
Selwyn,  turning  off  the  light  in  the  lamp  behind 
me,  took  a  chair  and  drew  it  close  to  me.  Anxiety 
he  made  no  effort  to  control  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Well — have  you  anything  to  tell  me?" 

"Not  as  much  as  I  hoped.  Mrs.  Mundy  hasn't 
been  able  to  find  Etta  Blake  yet.  Until — ' 

"Etta   Blake?"     Selwyn's   tone   was   groping. 
196 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"Oh,  the  little  cashier-girl.  I  didn't  expect  you  to 
tell  anything  of  her.  I  wish  you'd  put  her  out  of 
your  mind."  His  face  darkened. 

"I  can't.  She  seems  to  be  in  no  one  else's.  But 
we  won't  talk  of  her  to-night.  I  saw  the  Swinks 
this  afternoon." 

"I  know  you  did.  Mrs.  Swink  telephoned 
Harrie  to-night.  Did  my  appraisement  approach 
correctness?" 

' '  Of  Mrs.  Swink,  yes.  She's  impossible.  Most 
fat  fools  are.  They're  like  feather  beds.  You 
could  stamp  on  them,  but  you  couldn't  get  rid  of 
the  fool-ness.  It  would  just  be  in  another  place. 
She  told  me  she  was  manicured  on  Mondays,  mas- 
saged on  Tuesdays,  marcelled  Wednesdays,  and 
chiropodized  on  Thursdays,  and  one  couldn't  ex- 
pect much  of  a  daughter  with  that  sort  of  a 
mother;  still,  the  girl  interested  me.  I  feel  sorry 
for  her.  She  mustn't  marry  Harrie." 

"But  who's  going  to  tell  her?"  Selwyn's  voice 
was  querulously  eager.  "I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  find — find — " 

"I  did."  I  nodded  in  his  flushed  face.  "I  don't 
think  it  will  be  necessary  to  tell  her  anything. 
She's  very  much  in  love,  but  not  with  Harrie." 

Selwyn  sat  upright.  A  certain  rigidity  of  which 
he  is  capable  stiffened  him.  He  looked  much,  but 
said  nothing. 

197 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"I've  had  an  interesting  time  this  afternoon. 
I  never  wanted  to  be  a  detective  person,  but  I  can 
understand  the  fascination  of  the  profession.  Luck 
was  with  me,  and  in  less  than  thirty  minutes  after 
meeting  her  I  was  pretty  sure  Madeleine  Swink 
was  not  in  love  with  Harrie  and  was  in  love  with 
some  one  else.  A  few  minutes  later  I  found  out 
who  she  was  in  love  with,  found  he  was  equally  in 
love  with  her;  that  they  were  once  engaged  and  still 
want  to  get  married.  Our  job's  to  help  them  do  it. " 

Selwyn's  seriousness  is  a  heritage.  Frowningly 
he  looked  at  me.  "This  is  hardly  a  thing  to  jest 
about.  I  may  be  very  dense,  but  I  fail  to  under- 
stand— " 

For  an  hour  we  talked  of  Madeleine  Swink  and 
Mrs.  Swink,  of  Harrie  and  Tom  Cressy,  and  in 
terms  which  even  a  man  could  understand  I  told 
how  my  discoveries  had  been  made,  of  how  I  had 
managed  to  see  Tom  and  Madeleine  together,  and 
of  my  frank  questioning  of  the  former.  But  what 
I  did  not  tell  him  was  that  my  thought  was  not  of 
them  alone.  By  my  side  the  little  girl  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms  had  seemed  clinging  to  my  skirt. 

"What  sort  of  a  girl  is  she?"  In  Selwyn's  voice 
was  relief  and  anxiety.  "Has  she  courage  enough 
to  take  things  in  her  own  hands?  I've  no  con- 
science so  far  as  her  mother  is  concerned.  She  de- 

198 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

serves  no  consideration,  but,  being  an  interested 
party,  I — " 

"You  needn't  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  I'm 
not  sure  what  sort  she  is,  or  how  much  courage 
she's  got,  but  worms  have  been  known  to  turn. 
If  a  hundred  years  before  they  were  born  some- 
body had  begun  to  train  her  parents  to  be  proper 
parents  she  might  have  been  a  better  product, 
still  there  seems  to  be  something  to  her.  For  Tom's 
sake  I  hope  so." 

"He's  a  nice  chap."  Selwyn's  voice  was  un- 
qualifiedly emphatic.  "And  his  father  is  as  hon- 
est a  man  as  ever  lived.  His  mother,  I  believe, 
conies  of  pretty  plain  people." 

"I  don't  know  where  she  comes  from,  but  she's 
made  a  success  of  her  son,  which  is  what  a  good 
many  well-born  women  fail  to  do.  People  aren't 
responsible  for  their  ancestors,  but  they  are  for 
their  descendants  to  a  great  extent,  and  Mrs. 
Cressy  seems  to  understand  this  more  clearly  than 
certain  ancestrally  dependent  persons  I  have  met. 
I'd  like  to  know  her." 

"You're  looking  at  me  as  if  I  didn't  agree  with 
you.  Some  day  I  hope  there  may  be  deeper  under- 
standing of,  and  better  training  for,  the  supreme 
profession  of  life;  but  to  get  out  of  generalizations 
into  a  concrete  case,  what  can  I  do  in  the  way  of 
service  to  Miss  Swink  and  Mr.  Thomas  Cressy? 

199 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Being,  as  I  said  before,  an  interested  party,  I 
hardly—" 

A  knock  on  the  door  behind  him  made  Selwyn 
start  as  if  struck;  gave  evidence  of  strain  and  ner- 
vousness of  which  he  was  unconscious,  and,  jump- 
ing up,  he  went  toward  the  door  and  opened  it. 
In  the  hall  Bettina  and  Jimmy  Gibbons  were 
standing.  The  latter  was  twisting  his  cap  round 
and  round  in  his  hand,  his  big,  brown  eyes  looking 
first  at  Bettina  and  then  at  me  and  then  at  Selwyn, 
but  to  my  "Come  in,"  he  paid  no  attention. 

Getting  up,  I  went  toward  him,  put  my  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "What  is  it,  Jimmy?  Why  don't 
you  come  in?" 

"My  shoes  ain't  fitten.  I  wiped  them,  but  the 
mud  wouldn't  come  off."  His  eyes  looked  down 
on  his  feet.  "I  could  tell  you  out  here  if  you 
wouldn't  mind  listening." 

"I  told  him  I'd  take  the  message  or  call  you 
down-stairs,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me  do  either 
one."  Bettina,  hands  behind  her,  nodded  in  my 
face.  "His  mother  says  her  boarder  is  dying  and 
she  wants  to  tell  you  something  before  she  dies, 
and  she  told  Jimmy  he  must  see  you  himself. 
Grannie's  gone  to  prayer-meeting  with  Mrs. 
Crimm,  and  afterward  to  see  about  a  sick  person. 
I'm  awful  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  and  if  the  lady 
hadn't  been  dying — " 

200 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"You're  not  interrupting."  I  drew  the  boy  in- 
side. Bettina  came  also.  From  the  fire  to  which 
I  led  him,  Jimmy  drew  back,  however,  and  blew 
upon  his  stiff  little  fingers  until  it  was  safe  to  put 
them  closer  to  the  blazing  coals.  Looking  down 
at  his  feet,  I  saw  a  large  and  ragged  hole  on  the 
side  of  his  right  shoe  from  which  a  tiny  bit  of  blood 
was  slowly  oozing  upon  the  rug. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  foot,  Jimmy? 
Have  you  cut  it,  stuck  something  in  it?  You  must 
take  your  shoe  off  and  see  what's  the  matter."  I 
pointed  to  the  floor. 

"I  didn't  know  I'd  done  it."  Craning  his  neck 
to  its  fullest  extending,  Jimmy  peered  down  at  the 
bleeding  foot,  then  looked  up  at  me.  "I'm  awful 
sorry  it  got  on  the  rug.  I'll  wipe  it  up  in  a  min- 
ute." Imperishable  merriment  struggled  with 
abashed  regret,  and,  holding  out  the  offending 
foot,  he  laughed  wistfully.  "It  ain't  got  no  feeling 
in  it, though  it's  coming.  I  guess  it's  kinder  froze. 
They're  regular  flip-flops,  them  shoes  are." 

Under  his  breath  I  heard  a  smothered  exclama- 
,  tion  from  Selwyn.  He  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
boy,  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  staring  at  him.  He 
knew,  of  course,  there  were  countless '  ill-fed,  ill- 
clothed,  unprotected  children  in  every  city  of 
every  land,  but  personally  he  had  come  in  contact 
with  but  few  of  them,  and  the  bit  of  flesh  and 

201 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

blood  before  him  stabbed  with  sharp  realization. 
Helplessly  he  turned  to  me.  "The  boy's  half 
frozen.  Where  did  he  come  from?  What  does  he 
want  you  to  do?" 

Jimmy  looked  up  at  me.  "Mother  told  me  to 
hurry.  The  doctor's  done  gone  and  Mrs.  Cotter 
says  she's  bound  to  see  you  before  she  dies.  She's 
got  something  to  tell  you.  She  says  please,  'm, 
come  quick." 

Hesitating,  I  looked  at  the  boyr  who  had  come 
closer  to  the  fire.  "Did  the  doctor  say  she  was 
dying?  I  saw  her  yesterday  and  she  seemed  bet- 
ter. Miss  White  was  to  see  her  to-day." 

"Miss  White  is  there  now."  Jimmy  lifted  his 
right  foot  and  held  it  from  the  ground.  The 
warmth  of  the  room  was  bringing  pain  to  the  be- 
numbed member  into  which  something  had  been 
stuck.  * '  She  told  me  to  tell  you  please,  'm,  to  come 
if  you  could.  Mrs.  Cotter  says  she  can't  die  until 
she  sees  you,  and  she's  so  tired  trying  to  hold  out. 
She  won't  have  breath  left  to  talk,  mother  says,  if 
you  don't  hurry." 

Perplexed,  uncertain,  I  waited  a  half-minute 
longer.  Mrs.  Cotter,  the  renter  of  Mrs.  Gibbons's 
middle  room,  and  sometime  boarder,  I  had  seen 
frequently  of  late.  Nothing  human  could  have 
stood  what  she  had  been  forcing  herself  to  do  for 
some  weeks  past,  and  that  resistance  should  have 

202 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

yielded  to  relentless  exaction  was  not  to  be  won- 
dered at.  Ten  hours  a  day  she  sewed  in  the  carpet 
department  of  one  of  the  city's  big  stores,  and  for 
some  time  past  she  had  been  one  of  the  office- 
cleaning  force  of  the  Metropolitan  Building,  which 
at  night  made  ready  for  the  day's  occupants  the 
rooms  which  were  swept  and  dusted  and  scrubbed 
while  others  slept  or  played,  or  rested  or  made 
plans  for  coming  times.  The  extra  work  had  been 
undertaken  in  order  to  get  nourishment  and  medi- 
cine needed  for  her  little  girl,  who  had  developed 
tuberculosis.  There  was  nowhere  for  the  child  to 
go.  The  insufficient  sanatorium  provided  by  the 
city  for  its  diseased  and  germ-disseminating  poor 
wras  over-crowded.  To  save  her  child  she  had 
fought  valiantly,  but  her  life  was  the  forfeit  of 
her  fight.  I  wondered  what  she  wanted  to  tell 
me. 

I  looked  at  Selwyn,  in  my  eyes  questioning. 
Mrs.  Mundy  was  out.  I  could  not  leave  Bettina 
alone  in  the  house.  What  must  I  do? 

"Do  you  think  she  is  really  dying?  People  like 
that  are  often  hysterical,  often  nervously  imagi- 
native." Selwyn's  voice  was  worried.  "You 
ought  not  to  be  sent  for  like  this.  It  isn't  right." 

"She  wouldn't  have  sent  as  late  as  this,  but  the 
doctor  says  she  won't  last  till  daybreak."  Jimmy 
twisted  his  cap  into  a  round,  rough  ball.  "I'll  get 

203 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Mrs.  Mundy  for  Bettina  if  you'll  tell  me  where 
she  is." 

"You  can't  get  her.  She's  out  the  prayer- 
meeting  by  now  and  gone  to  see  somebody  who 
sent  for  her.  I  don't  know  who  it  is,  and  I  ain't 
by  myself.  Miss  Sallie  Jenks  is  sitting  with  me 
while  grannie's  out."  Bettina's  tones  were  ener- 
getic. She  turned  to  me.  "You  needn't  stay  back 
on  my  account,  Miss  Danny.  Aren't  you  going?" 

"Yes — I'm  going."  I  walked  toward  my  bed- 
room. At  its  door  I  stopped.  "I'm  sorry,  Selwyn, 
but  I'll  have  to  go.  The  woman  is  dying." 

Selwyn' s  teeth  came  together  sharply  and  in  his 
eyes  were  disapproval  and  protest.  For  a  half- 
minute  he  did  not  speak,  then  he  faced  me. 

"If  you  insist,  there's  nothing  to  be  said  except 
that  I  am  going  with  you.  Where's  your  tel- 
ephone? I'll  get  a  cab." 

"Oh  no!  You  must  not  go."  Back  to  the  door, 
I  leaned  against  it.  "You've  never  seen  things 
of  this  kind.  They're— they're— " 

' '  No  pleasanter  for  you  than  for  me. ' '  His  voice 
was  decisive;  but  his  eyes  were  no  longer  on  mine. 
They  were  on  Jimmy  Gibbons's  shoes  with  the  big 
and  ragged  hole  in  one  of  them  through  which  the 
bare  skin  of  his  foot  showed  red  and  raw.  He 
drew  in  his  breath;  turned  to  me.  "Put  on  warm 
things.  It's  pretty  cold  to-night." 

204 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

be  turned  on.  I  wouldn't.  Good  night,  Tom.  Be 
careful  how  you  meet  Madeleine.  How  many 
times  have  you  seen  her  since  she  got  here?" 

"Just  once  before  this  afternoon."  His  face 
flushed.  "Something  is  the  matter.  She's  not 
like  herself.  Her  mother's  up  to  something." 

"When  you  want  to  see  her,  come  down  here 
and  see  me.  Don't  meet  on  corners  or  in  the  park, 
and — and  the  next  time  you're  engaged  don't  let 
a  girl  think  you're  going  to  wait  indefinitely.  If 
she  isn't  willing  to  marry  you  and  go  to  Pungo  if 
necessary,  she  isn't  the  girl  for  you  to  marry. 
Good  night." 

At  the  door  I  turned.    Tom  was  still  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  staring  at  me,  in  his  face 
slow-dawning  understanding. 
13 


CHAPTER  XX 

iS  Selwyn  and  David  Guard  shook  hands, 
**•  eagerness  of  desire  must  have  been  in  my 
face,  for  Selwyn,  turning,  seemed  puzzled  by  what 
he  saw.  Going  into  the  room  adjoining  my  sitting- 
room,  I  left  them  alone  for  a  few  moments,  and 
when  I  came  back  I  was  careful  to  keep  out  of  my 
eyes  that  which  as  yet  it  was  not  wise  that  they 
should  tell.  I  have  long  since  learned  a  man  must 
not  be  hurried.  Certainly  not  a  man  of  Selwyn's 
type. 

Sitting  down  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa,  I  nodded  to 
the  men  to  sit  down  also,  but  that  which  they  had 
been  discussing  while  I  was  out  of  the  room  still 
held,  and,  returning  to  it,  they  stood  awhile  longer, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  mantelpiece,  and,  hands 
in  my  lap,  I  watched  them  with  hope  in  my  heart 
of  which  they  did  not  dream. 

They  are  strangely  contrasting — Selwyn  and 
David  Guard.  That  is,  so  far  as  outward  and 
physical  appearance  is  concerned.  But  of  certain 
inward  sympathies,  certain  personal  standards  of 

190 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

life,  certain  intellectual  acceptances  and  rejections, 
they  have  far  more  in  common  than  they  imagine, 
and  to  find  this  basis  upon  which  friendship  might 
take  root  is  a  desire  that  sprang  into  life  upon  seeing 
them  together.  Should  they  ever  be  friends,  they 
would  be  forever  friends.  Of  that  I  am  very  sure. 

By  Selwyn's  side  David  Guard  seemed  smaller, 
frailer,  lest  robust  than  ever,  yet  about  him  was  no 
hint  of  feebleness,  and  his  radiation  of  quiet  force 
was  not  lessened  by  Selwyn's  strength.  His 
clothes  were  shabbier  than  ever,  his  cravat  even 
less  secure  than  usual,  and  the  long  lock  of  hair 
that  fell  at  times  across  his  forehead  was  grayer 
than  formerly,  I  thought,  but  no  externals  could 
dim  the  consciousness  that  he  was  a  man  to  be 
reckoned  with. 

Opposite  him  Selwyn  seemed  the  embodiment 
of  all  he  lacked.  The  well-being  of  his  body,  the 
quiet  excellence  of  his  clothes,  the  unconscious  con- 
fidence, born  of  ability  and  abundance,  the  se- 
curity of  established  position,  marked  him  a  man 
to  whom  the  gods  have  been  good.  But  the  gods 
mock  all  men.  In  Selwyn's  eyes  was  search  for 
something  not  yet  found.  In  David  Guard's  the 
peace  that  comes  of  finding.  I  had  hardly  thought 
of  their  knowing  each  other.  To-night,  quite  by 
accident,  they  had  met.  Selwyn  had  come  accord- 
ing to  agreement.  David  Guard,  to  tell  me  of  a 

191 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

case  in  which  he  was  interested.  He  had  come  be- 
fore Selwyn,  and  at  the  latter's  entrance  had 
started  to  go.  I  would  not  let  him  go.  If  they 
could  be  made  friends — God ! — what  a  power  they 
could  be! 

They  were  discussing  the  war.  The  afternoon's 
reports  had  been  somewhat  more  ghastly  than 
usual. 

"The  twentieth  century  obviously  doesn't  pro- 
pose to  be  outdone  by  any  other  period  of  history, 
recorded  or  unrecorded."  One  hand  in  his  pocket, 
an  elbow  on  the  mantel-shelf,  Selwyn  looked  at 
David  Guard.  "In  the  quarter  of  a  million  years 
in  which  man,  or  what  we  term  man,  has  presum- 
ably lived  on  this  particular  planet,  nothing  so  far 
has  been  discovered,  I  believe,  which  tells  of  such 
abominations  as  are  taking  place  to-day.  It's  an 
interesting  epoch  from  the  standpoint  of  man's 
advance  in  scientific  barbarism." 

"It  deepens,  certainly,  our  respect  for  our  pri- 
meval ancestors."  David  Guard  smiled  grimly. 
"I  understand  there  are  still  tree-dwellers  in  cer- 
tain parts  of  Australia  who  knock  one  another  in  the 
head  when  it  so  pleases  them  to  do.  For  the  set- 
tlement of  difficulties  their  methods  require  much 
less  effort  and  trouble  than  ours.  On  the  whole,  I 
prefer  their  manner  of  fighting.  Each  side  can  see 
what  the  other's  about." 

192 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"So  do  I."  Curled  up  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa, 
I  had  not  intended  to  speak.  A  woman's  opinions 
on  war  don't  interest  men.  "The  fundamental 
instinct  in  man  to  fight  may  require  a  few  thousand 
more  years  to  yield  to  the  advisability  of  settling 
differences  around  a  table  in  a  council-chamber, 
but  one  can't  tell.  Much  less  time  may  be  neces- 
sary. The  tree-dwellers  and  the  cave-dwellers  and 
the  tent-dwellers  spent  most  of  their  time  scrap- 
ping. We  do  have  intervals  of  peace  in  which  to 
get  ready  to  fight  again." 

"So  did  they,  though  their  intervals  were 
shorter,  perhaps,  owing  to  their  simpler  methods 
of  attack."  Selwyn  laughed.  "In  their  day,  war- 
fare being  largely  a  personal  or  tribal  affair,  little 
time  was  necessary  for  preparation.  With  us  the 
whole  machinery  of  government  is  needed  to  mur- 
der and  maim  and  devastate  and  ruin.  Civiliza- 
tion and  science  and  education  have  complicated 
pretty  hopelessly  the  adjustments  of  disputes,  the 
taking  of  territory,  and  the  acceptance  of  opposing 
ideals.  The  biggest  artillery  and  the  best  brains  for 
butchery  at  present  are  having  their  day.  Hu- 
manity in  the  making  has  its  discouraging  side." 

"It  has!"  David  Guard's  voice  was  emphatic, 
though  he,  too,  laughed.  "If  humanity  made 
claim  to  being  a  finished  product,  there'd  be 
justification  for  more  than  discouragement.  It 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

makes  no  such  claim.  Fists  and  clubs,  and  sling- 
shots and  battle-axes,  are  handier  weapons  than 
guns  and  cannon,  and  armored  air-ships  and  under- 
sea craft,  but  in  the  days  of  the  former  using,  but 
one  kind  of  army  was  sent  out  to  fight.  To-day  we 
send  out  two." 

"Two?"  Selwyn  looked  puzzled.  "What  two?" 
"One  to  undo,  as  far  as  possible,  the  work  of  the 
other.  The  second  army,  not  the  first,  is  the  test 
of  humanity's  advance;  the  army  that  tries  to 
keep  life  in  the  man  the  other  army  has  tried  to 
kill,  to  give  back  what  has  been  taken  away,  to 
help  what  has  been  hurt,  to  feed  what  has  been 
starved,  to  clothe  what  is  made  naked,  to  build  up 
what  has  been  broken  down.  Each  country  that 
to-day  gives  fight,  equips  and  trains  and  sends  out 
two  contrasting  armies.  They  work  together,  but 
with  opposing  purposes.  The  second  army— 

"Has  a  good  many  women  in  it.  But  it's  so 
stupid,  so  wicked  and  wasteful,  to  fight  over 
things  that  are  rarely  finally  settled  by  fighting. 
It's  bad  business!"  My  hands  twisted  shiver- 
ingly  in  my  lap.  "Do  you  suppose  the  time  will 
ever  come  when  man  will  see  it's  the  animal's  way 
of  getting  what  he  wants,  of  keeping  others  from 
getting  what  he's  got,  of  settling  difficulties  and 
defending  points  of  view?  Do  you  think  he'll  ever 
find  a  better  way?" 

194 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

''In  a  few  thousand  years — yes."  Selwyn  again 
smiled  and,  changing  his  position,  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire.  "When  we  have  the  same  code 
for  nations  as  for  individuals,  the  same  insistence 
that  what's  wrong  in  and  punishable  for  a  man 
is  wrong  in  and  punishable  for  his  country,  or 
when  we  cease  to  think  of  ourselves  as  group 
people  and  remember  we  are  but  parts  of  a  whole, 
we  may  cease  to  be  fighting  animals.  Not  until 
then,  perhaps.  Personally,  I  think  war  is  a  good 
thing  every  now  and  then.  That  is,  in  the  present 
state  of  our  undevelopment." 

"So  do  I."  David  Guard's  shoulders  made  en- 
ergetic movement.  "War  brings  out  every  evil 
passion  of  which  man  is  possessed,  but  it  has  its 
redemptive  side.  It  clears  away  befogging  soph- 
istries, delivers  from  deadening  indulgences  and 
indifferences;  enables  us  to  see  ourselves,  our  man- 
ner of  life,  our  methods  of  government,  our  obli- 
gations and  our  injustices,  in  perspective  that  re- 
veals what  could,  perhaps,  be  grasped  in  no  other 
way.  It  brings  about  readjustments  and  re- 
accountings,  and  puts  into  operation  new  forces  of 
life,  new  conceptions  of  duty.  It's  a  frightful  way 
of  making  man  get  a  firmer  grip  on  certain  essen- 
tial realizations,  of  taking  in  more  definitely  the 
high  purpose  of  his  destiny,  but  at  times  there 
seems  no  other  way.  I  pray  God  we  may  keep 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

out  of  this,  but  if  it  means  a  stand  for  human 
rights—" 

"We'll  all  enlist!"  The  faces  of  the  men  before 
me  were  sober,  and  quick  fear  made  my  voice  un- 
steady. "War  may  have  its  redemptive  side;  it 
may  at  times  be  necessary  for  the  preservation  of 
honor  and  the  maintenance  of  principle,  but  that's 
because,  I  imagine,  of  our  unpreparedness  as  hu- 
man beings  to — to  be  the  right  sort  of  human 
beings.  When  we  are  there'll  be  no  time  to  kill 
one  another.  We'll  need  it  all  to  help  each  other. 
I  hate  war  as  few  hate  it,  perhaps,  but  should  it 
come  to  us  I'm  as  ready  to  join  my  army  as  you  to 
join  yours."  I  got  up  and  took  the  hand  David 
Guard  was  holding  out  to  me.  "I  wish  you  didn't 
have  to  go.  Must  you?" 

"Must.  Got  an  engagement  at  nine-fifteen. 
I'll  see  you  before  the  week  is  out  about  Clara 
Rudd.  Good  night."  He  turned  to  Selwyn,  shook 
hands,  and  was  gone. 

In  the  corner  of  the  sofa  I  again  sat  down,  and 
Selwyn,  turning  off  the  light  in  the  lamp  behind 
me,  took  a  chair  and  drew  it  close  to  me.  Anxiety 
he  made  no  effort  to  control  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Well — have  you  anything  to  tell  me?" 

"Not  as  much  as  I  hoped.  Mrs.  Mundy  hasn't 
been  able  to  find  Etta  Blake  yet.  Until— 

"Etta  Blake?"  Selwyn's  tone  was  groping. 
196 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"Oh,  the  little  cashier-girl.  I  didn't  expect  you  to 
tell  anything  of  her.  I  wish  you'd  put  her  out  of 
your  mind."  His  face  darkened. 

"I  can't.  She  seems  to  be  in  no  one  else's.  But 
we  won't  talk  of  her  to-night.  I  saw  the  Swinks 
this  afternoon." 

"I  know  you  did.  Mrs.  Swink  telephoned 
Harrie  to-night.  Did  my  appraisement  approach 
correctness?" 

"Of  Mrs.  Swink,  yes.  She's  impossible.  Most 
fat  fools  are.  They're  like  feather  beds.  You 
could  stamp  on  them,  but  you  couldn't  get  rid  of 
the  fool-ness.  It  would  just  be  in  another  place. 
She  told  me  she  was  manicured  on  Mondays,  mas- 
saged on  Tuesdays,  marcelled  Wednesdays,  and 
chiropodized  on  Thursdays,  and  one  couldn't  ex- 
pect much  of  a  daughter  with  that  sort  of  a 
mother;  still,  the  girl  interested  me.  I  feel  sorry 
for  her.  She  mustn't  marry  Harrie." 

"But  who's  going  to  tell  her?"  Selwyn's  voice 
was  querulously  eager.  "I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  find — find — " 

"I  did."  I  nodded  in  his  flushed  face.  "I  don't 
think  it  will  be  necessary  to  tell  her  anything. 
She's  very  much  in  love,  but  not  with  Harrie." 

Selwyn  sat  upright.  A  certain  rigidity  of  which 
he  is  capable  stiffened  him.  He  looked  much,  but 
said  nothing. 

197 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"I've  had  an  interesting  time  this  afternoon, 
I  never  wanted  to  be  a  detective  person,  but  I  can 
understand  the  fascination  of  the  profession.  Luck 
was  with  me,  and  in  less  than  thirty  minutes  after 
meeting  her  I  was  pretty  sure  Madeleine  Swink 
was  not  in  love  with  Harrie  and  was  in  love  with 
some  one  else.  A  few  minutes  later  I  found  out 
who  she  was  in  love  with,  found  he  was  equally  in 
love  with  her;  that  they  were  once  engaged  and  still 
want  to  get  married.  Our  job's  to  help  them  do  it. " 

Selwyn's  seriousness  is  a  heritage.  Frowningly 
he  looked  at  me.  "This  is  hardly  a  thing  to  jest 
about.  I  may  be  very  dense,  but  I  fail  to  under- 
stand—" 

For  an  hour  we  talked  of  Madeleine  Swink  and 
Mrs.  Swink,  of  Harrie  and  Tom  Cressy,  and  in 
terms  which  even  a  man  could  understand  I  told 
how  my  discoveries  had  been  made,  of  how  I  had 
managed  to  see  Tom  and  Madeleine  together,  and 
of  my  frank  questioning  of  the  former.  But  what 
I  did  not  tell  him  was  that  my  thought  was  not  of 
them  alone.  By  my  side  the  little  girl  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms  had  seemed  clinging  to  my  skirt. 

"What  sort  of  a  girl  is  she?"  In  Selwyn's  voice 
was  relief  and  anxiety.  "Has  she  courage  enough 
to  take  things  in  her  own  hands?  I've  no  con- 
science so  far  as  her  mother  is  concerned.  She  de- 

198 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

serves  no  consideration,  but,  being  an  interested 
party,  I — " 

"You  needn't  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  I'm 
not  sure  what  sort  she  is,  or  how  much  courage 
she's  got,  but  worms  have  been  known  to  turn. 
If  a  hundred  years  before  they  were  born  some- 
body had  begun  to  train  her  parents  to  be  proper 
parents  she  might  have  been  a  better  product, 
still  there  seems  to  be  something  to  her.  For  Tom's 
sake  I  hope  so." 

"He's  a  nice  chap."  Selwyn's  voice  was  un- 
qualifiedly emphatic.  "And  his  father  is  as  hon- 
est a  man  as  ever  lived.  His  mother,  I  believe, 
comes  of  pretty  plain  people." 

"I  don't  know  where  she  comes  from,  but  she's 
made  a  success  of  her  son,  which  is  what  a  good 
many  well-born  women  fail  to  do.  People  aren't 
responsible  for  their  ancestors,  but  they  are  for 
their  descendants  to  a  great  extent,  and  Mrs. 
Cressy  seems  to  understand  this  more  clearly  than 
certain  ancestrally  dependent  persons  I  have  met. 
I'd  like  to  know  her." 

"You're  looking  at  me  as  if  I  didn't  agree  with 
you.  Some  day  I  hope  there  may  be  deeper  under- 
standing of,  and  better  training  for,  the  supreme 
profession  of  life ;  but  to  get  out  of  generalizations 
into  a  concrete  case,  what  can  I  do  in  the  way  of 
service  to  Miss  Swink  and  Mr.  Thomas  Cressy? 

199 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Being,  as  I  said  before,  an  interested  party,  I 
hardly—" 

A  knock  on  the  door  behind  him  made  Selwyn 
start  as  if  struck;  gave  evidence  of  strain  and  ner- 
vousness of  which  he  was  unconscious,  and,  jump- 
ing up,  he  went  toward  the  door  and  opened  it. 
In  the  hall  Bettina  and  Jimmy  Gibbons  were 
standing.  The  latter  was  twisting  his  cap  round 
and  round  in  his  hand,  his  big,  brown  eyes  looking 
first  at  Bettina  and  then  at  me  and  then  at  Selwyn, 
but  to  my  "Come  in,"  he  paid  no  attention. 

Getting  up,  I  went  toward  him,  put  my  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "What  is  it,  Jimmy?  Why  don't 
you  come  in?" 

"My  shoes  ain't  fitten.  I  wiped  them,  but  the 
mud  wouldn't  come  off."  His  eyes  looked  down 
on  his  feet.  "I  could  tell  you  out  here  if  you 
wouldn't  mind  listening." 

"I  told  him  I'd  take  the  message  or  call  you 
down-stairs,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me  do  either 
one."  Bettina,  hands  behind  her,  nodded  in  my 
face.  "His  mother  says  her  boarder  is  dying  and 
she  wants  to  tell  you  something  before  she  dies, 
and  she  told  Jimmy  he  must  see  you  himself. 
Grannie's  gone  to  prayer-meeting  with  Mrs. 
Crimm,  and  afterward  to  see  about  a  sick  person. 
I'm  awful  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  and  if  the  lady 
hadn't  been  dying — " 

200 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"You're  not  interrupting."  I  drew  the  boy  in- 
side. Bettina  came  also.  From  the  fire  to  which 
I  led  him,  Jimmy  drew  back,  however,  and  blew 
upon  his  stiff  little  fingers  until  it  was  safe  to  put 
them  closer  to  the  blazing  coals.  Looking  down 
at  his  feet,  I  saw  a  large  and  ragged  hole  on  the 
side  of  his  right  shoe  from  which  a  tiny  bit  of  blood 
was  slowly  oozing  upon  the  rug. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  foot,  Jimmy? 
Have  you  cut  it,  stuck  something  in  it?  You  must 
take  your  shoe  off  and  see  what's  the  matter."  I 
pointed  to  the  floor. 

"I  didn't  know  I'd  done  it."  Craning  his  neck 
to  its  fullest  extending,  Jimmy  peered  down  at  the 
bleeding  foot,  then  looked  up  at  me.  "I'm  awful 
sorry  it  got  on  the  rug.  I'll  wipe  it  up  in  a  min- 
ute." Imperishable  merriment  struggled  with 
abashed  regret,  and,  holding  out  the  offending 
foot,  he  laughed  wistfully.  "It  ain't  got  no  feeling 
in  it,  though  it's  coming.  I  guess  it's  kinder  froze. 
They're  regular  flip-flops,  them  shoes  are." 

Under  his  breath  I  heard  a  smothered  exclama- 
,  tion  from  Selwyn.  He  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
boy,  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  staring  at  him.  He 
knew,  of  course,  there  were  countless  ill-fed,  ill- 
clothed,  unprotected  children  in  every  city  of 
every  land,  but  personally  he  had  come  in  contact 
with  but  few  of  them,  and  the  bit  of  flesh  and 

201 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

blood  before  him  stabbed  with  sharp  realization. 
Helplessly  he  turned  to  me.  "The  boy's  half 
frozen.  Where  did  he  come  from?  What  does  he 
want  you  to  do?" 

Jimmy  looked  up  at  me.  "Mother  told  me  to 
hurry.  The  doctor's  done  gone  and  Mrs.  Cotter 
says  she's  bound  to  see  you  before  she  dies.  She's 
got  something  to  tell  you.  She  says  please,  'm, 
come  quick." 

Hesitating,  I  looked  at  the  boy,"  who  had  come 
closer  to  the  fire.  "Did  the  doctor  say  she  was 
dying?  I  saw  her  yesterday  and  she  seemed  bet- 
ter. Miss  White  was  to  see  her  to-day." 

"Miss  White  is  there  now."  Jimmy  lifted  his 
right  foot  and  held  it  from  the  ground.  The 
warmth  of  the  room  was  bringing  pain  to  the  be- 
numbed member  into  which  something  had  been 
stuck.  ' '  She  told  me  to  tell  you  please,  'm,  to  come 
if  you  could.  Mrs.  Cotter  says  she  can't  die  until 
she  sees  you,  and  she's  so  tired  trying  to  hold  out. 
She  won't  have  breath  left  to  talk,  mother  says,  if 
you  don't  hurry." 

Perplexed,  uncertain,  I  waited  a  half-minute 
longer.  Mrs.  Cotter,  the  renter  of  Mrs.  Gibbons's 
middle  room,  and  sometime  boarder,  I  had  seen 
frequently  of  late.  Nothing  human  could  have 
stood  what  she  had  been  forcing  herself  to  do  for 
some  weeks  past,  and  that  resistance  should  have 

202 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

yielded  to  relentless  exaction  was  not  to  be  won- 
dered at.  Ten  hours  a  day  she  sewed  in  the  carpet 
department  of  one  of  the  city's  big  stores,  and  for 
some  time  past  she  had  been  one  of  the  office- 
cleaning  force  of  the  Metropolitan  Building,  which 
at  night  made  ready  for  the  day's  occupants  the 
rooms  which  were  swept  and  dusted  and  scrubbed 
while  others  slept  or  played,  or  rested  or  made 
plans  for  coming  times.  The  extra  work  had  been 
undertaken  in  order  to  get  nourishment  and  medi- 
cine needed  for  her  little  girl,  who  had  developed 
tuberculosis.  There  was  nowhere  for  the  child  to 
go.  The  insufficient  sanatorium  provided  by  the 
city  for  its  diseased  and  germ-disseminating  poor 
was  over-crowded.  To  save  her  child  she  had 
fought  valiantly,  but  her  life  was  the  forfeit  of 
her  fight.  I  wondered  what  she  wanted  to  tell 
me. 

I  looked  at  Selwyn,  in  my  eyes  questioning. 
Mrs.  Mundy  was  out.  I  could  not  leave  Bettina 
alone  in  the  house.  What  must  I  do? 

"Do  you  think  she  is  really  dying?  People  like 
that  are  often  hysterical,  often  nervously  imagi- 
native." Selwyn's  voice  was  worried.  "You 
ought  not  to  be  sent  for  like  this.  It  isn't  right." 

"She  wouldn't  have  sent  as  late  as  this,  but  the 
doctor  says  she  won't  last  till  daybreak."  Jimmy 
twisted  his  cap  into  a  round,  rough  ball.  "I'll  get 

203 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Mrs.  Mundy  for  Bettina  if  you'll  tell  me  where 
she  is." 

"You  can't  get  her.  She's  out  the  prayer- 
meeting  by  now  and  gone  to  see  somebody  who 
sent  for  her.  I  don't  know  who  it  is,  and  I  ain't 
by  myself.  Miss  Sallie  Jenks  is  sitting  with  me 
while  grannie's  out."  Bettina's  tones  were  ener- 
getic. She  turned  to  me.  "You  needn't  stay  back 
on  my  account,  Miss  Danny.  Aren't  you  going?" 

"Yes — I'm  going."  I  walked  toward  my  bed- 
room. At  its  door  I  stopped.  "I'm  sorry,  Selwyn, 
but  I'll  have  to  go.  The  woman  is  dying." 

Selwyn 's  teeth  came  together  sharply  and  in  his 
eyes  were  disapproval  and  protest.  For  a  half- 
minute  he  did  not  speak,  then  he  faced  me. 

"If  you  insist,  there's  nothing  to  be  said  except 
that  I  am  going  with  you.  Where's  your  tel- 
ephone? I'll  get  a  cab." 

"  Oh  no !  You  must  not  go."  Back  to  the  door, 
I  leaned  against  it.  "You've  never  seen  things 
of  this  kind.  They're— they're — " 

' '  No  pleasanter  for  you  than  for  me. ' '  His  voice 
was  decisive;  but  his  eyes  were  no  longer  on  mine. 
They  were  on  Jimmy  Gibbons's  shoes  with  the  big 
and  ragged  hole  in  one  of  them  through  which  the 
bare  skin  of  his  foot  showed  red  and  raw.  He 
drew  in  his  breath;  turned  to  me.  "Put  on  warm 
things.  It's  pretty  cold  to-night." 

204 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"I  haven't  laughed  as  much  since  the  first  time 
I  went  to  the  circus,  and  if  there's  anything  better 
for  the  insides  than  laughing,  I've  never  took  it. 
Seems  to  me  it  clears  out  low-downness  and  sour 
spirits  better  than  any  tonic  you  can  buy,  and  for 
plum  wore-outness  a  good  laugh's  more  resting 
than  sleep.  When  you're  ready  to  have  the  hot 
things  brought  up,  let  me  know,  Miss  Dandridge. 
Martha's  down-stairs  and  everything's  ready  and 
just  waiting  for  the  word." 

It  was  hardly  time  for  refreshments,  and  at 
Mr.  Guard's  announcement  that  all  who  cared  to 
dance  could  go  into  the  next  room,  a  movement 
was  made  toward  the  latter,  and  then  all  stopped 
and  waited  for  Archie  Barbee,  who,  with  a  low 
bow,  was  asking  Mrs.  Crimm  for  the  favor  of  a 
fox- trot. 

Rigidly  Mrs.  Crimm  stiffened.  Indignantly 
she  waved  Archie  away.  "I'm  a  church  member. 
I  never  danced  in  my  life,  and  it's  unfeeling  of  you 
to  be  asking  of  me  when  my  poor  brother's  only 
been  in  his  grave  eight  days."  She  took  out  a 
black-bordered  handkerchief  from  a  bag  hanging  at 
her  side,  and  opened  it  carefully.  "It's  unfeeling 
of  you,  with  him  only  dead  one  day  over  a  week." 

Hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  Archie  bowed  low. 
"I  ask  your  pardon,  ma'am.  I  hadn't  heard  about 
your  brother — leaving  you,  and  I  didn't  guess  it, 
15  221 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

seeing  you  sitting  here  as  handsome  as  a  holly- 
hock, though  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  see  your  dress 
is  elegant  black  and  extra  becoming.  I  beg  you'll 
be  excusing  of  me.  Mrs.  Mundy,  ma'am,  I  hope 
you'll  honor  me." 

The  room  had  grown  quiet,  each  waiting  for  the 
other  to  move,  and,  hearing  a  step  in  the  hall,  I 
looked  toward  the  door,  which  was  partly  open, 
then  went  forward,  thinking  a  belated  guest  might 
be  coming  in.  The  door  opened  wider  and  Selwyn 
stood  on  its  threshold. 

For  a  half-minute  I  stared  at  him  and  he  at 
me.  In  his  face  was  amazement.  As  I  held  out 
my  hand  he  recovered  himself  and  came  inside. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  afraid  I'm  intruding. 
I  did  not  know  you  were  having  a — 

"Party.  I  am."  I  was  angry  with  myself  for 
the  flush  in  my  face.  "You  are  in  time  to  share  in 
some  of  it.  Mr.  Guard" — I  turned  to  the  latter, 
who  happened  to  be  near  the  door — "will  you 
introduce  Mr.  Thorne  to  some  of  my  friends  while 
I  see  Martha?  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment." 
I  had  changed  my  mind  and  decided  to  have 
supper  before  we  danced. 

Selwyn  bit  his  lip  and  his  eyes  narrowed,  then 
over  his  face  swept  change,  and,  shaking  hands 
with  David  Guard,  he  went  forward  and  spoke  to 
Mrs.  Mundy  and  Bettina;  shook  hands  with  Mr. 

222 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Crimm,  and  met  in  turn  each  of  my  guests.  Why 
had  he  come  to-night  of  all  nights?  I  asked  myself. 
He  evidently  intended  to  stay  and  perhaps  my 
party  might  be  ruined. 

But  it  was  not  ruined.  With  an  ability  I  did 
not  know  he  possessed  Selwyn  gave  himself  to  the 
furtherance  of  the  evening's  pleasure,  talking  to 
first  one  and  then  the  other,  and  later,  with  the 
ease  of  long  usage,  he  waited  on  Mrs.  Gibbons 
and  Mrs.  Crimm,  serving  them  punctiliously  with 
all  that  was  included  in  the  evening's  refresh- 
ments. When  there  was  nothing  more  that  he 
could  do  I  saw  him  sitting  between  Gracie  Hurd  the 
little  shirtwaist  girl,  and  Marion  Spade,  a  waitress 
at  one  of  the  up-town  restaurants,  eating  his  sup- 
per as  they  ate  theirs,  and  they  were  finding  him 
apparently  somewhat  more  than  entertaining. 

From  my  corner  where  I  poured  tea  I  watched 
the  pictures  made  by  the  different  groupings  and 
tried  not  to  think  of  Selwyn.  He  was  behaving 
well,  but  he  didn't  approve  of  what  I  was  doing. 
He  rarely  approves  of  what  I  do. 

"Do  let  Mrs.  Mundy  bring  you  some  hot  oys- 
ters." I  leaned  over  and  spoke  to  Bettie  Flynn, 
upon  whom  Mrs.  Mundy  and  I  were  keeping 
watch  lest  she  show  signs  of  her  old  trouble.  "And 
can't  I  give  you  a  cup  of  coffee?"  I  held  out  my 
hand  for  her  empty  cup. 

223 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Bettie  shook  her  head  regarding  the  coffee,  but 
handed  her  plate  to  Mrs.  Mundy.  ' '  You  certainly 
can  give  me  some  more  oysters.  I've  been  an 
Inmate  for  nine  years  and  Inmates  don't  often 
have  a  chance  at  oysters.  At  the  City  Home  your 
chief  nourishment  is  thankfulness.  You're  ex- 
pected to  get  fat  on  thankfulness.  I  ain't  thank- 
ful, which  is  what  keeps  me  thin,  maybe."  She 
turned  to  me.  "My  dress  looks  real  nice,  don't 
it?  Seeing  we're  such  different  shapes,  it's  strange 
how  good  your  clothes  fit  me.  I  hope  the  rats 
won't  eat  this  dress.  I'm  going  to  keep  it  to  be 
buried  in.  Good  gracious!  I  didn't  know  you 
was  going  to  have  ice-cream  and  cake.  I  wouldn't 
have  et  all  them  oysters  if  I'd  known." 

When  supper  was  over  Dick  Banister,  who  is 
Gracie  Kurd's  beau,  asked  me,  with  awkward 
bowing,  for  the  first  dance,  and,  beginning  with 
him,  I  danced  with  every  man  in  the  room  who 
made  pretense  of  knowing  how,  except  Selwyn. 
He  did  not  ask  me.  Bravely,  however,  he  did  his 
part.  He  overlooked  no  one,  and  David  Guard, 
watching,  blinked  his  eyes  a  bit  and  smiled. 
Selwyn  would  make  a  magnificent  martyr.  A  sit- 
uation forced  upon  him  is  always  met  head  up. 

Mr.  Crimm,  who,  like  his  wife,  did  not  dance, 
though  for  different  reasons,  at  a  quarter  to  twelve 
took  out  his  watch  and,  looking  at  it,  got  up  with 

224 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

a  start.  "Come  on,  old  lady,  we've  got  to  go." 
Taking  his  wife  by  the  arm,  he  held  out  his  hand 
to  me.  "It's  been  great,  Miss  Heath.  I  never 
had  such  a  good  time  in  my  life.  Good  night, 
friends."  He  bowed  beamingly,  then  made  a 
special  bow  in  Selwyn's  direction. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  you,  sir.  I  used  to  know 
your  father.  I've  heard  many  a  case  tried  in  his 
court.  A  juster  man  never  lived.  Good  night, 
sir.  Good  night,  Miss  Heath." 

When  all  good-bys  were  over  and  all  were  gone 
Selwyn,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  looked 
at  me,  but  for  a  moment  said  nothing.  As  com- 
pletely as  if  he  had  stepped  from  one  body  into 
another  he  seemed  a  different  person  from  the 
man  who  had  been  most  charming  to  my  guests 
a  few  minutes  before  when  he  had  told  them  good 
night  as  if  he  were,  indeed,  their  host.  Looking 
at  him,  I  saw  his  face  was  haggard  and  worn  and 
that  he  was  nervously  anxious  and  uneasy. 

"It  is  late.  I  know  I  shouldn't  stay."  His 
voice  was  as  troubled  as  his  eyes.  "I'm  sorry  to 
keep  Mrs.  Mundy  up,  but  I  must  talk  to  you  to- 
night. Again  I  must  ask  you  what  to  do." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

"IT'S  pretty  beastly  in  me  to  put  this  on  you." 
•*•  Selwyn,  who  had  taken  his  seat  in  a  chair  op- 
posite mine,  first  leaned  back,  then  forward,  and, 
hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  looked  down 
upon  the  floor.  "I've  kept  away  from  you  lest  I 
trouble  you  with  what  I  have  no  right — 

"If  you  did  not  talk  to  me  frankly  I  would  be 
much  more  troubled."  I  drew  the  scarf  about  my 
shoulders  a  little  closer.  I  knew  what  was  coming. 
The  thought  of  it  chilled.  "Is  it  about  Harrie 
you  are  again  worried?" 

Selwyn  nodded.  "You  knew  he  had  left  home? 
Knew  he  had  taken  a  bachelor  apartment  down- 
town?" 

"I  heard  it  day  before  yesterday.  Kitty  told 
me.  Billie  is  pretty  upset  about  him.  Being  five 
years  older  and  married,  Billie  is  seeing  life  rather 
differently  from  the  way  Harrie  takes  it,  and  the 
latter '  s  recklessness — ' ' 

Selwyn  looked  at  me,  then  away.  "The  boy  is 
beyond  comprehension.  I  haven't  seen  him  but 

226 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

once  in  nearly  two  weeks.  Five  days  before 
Christmas  he  had  his  trunk  and  certain  things 
sent  down- town,  and  wrote  me  a  note  telling  of 
the  apartment  he'd  taken.  I've  been  to  see  him 
several  times,  but  he's  never  in  and,  I'm  told, 
hasn't  been  in  now  for  over  a  week.  I've  written 
him,  made  every  inquiry  likely  to  lead  to  infor- 
mation without  exciting  undue  suspicion,  and  now, 
unless  I  go  to  the  police — "  Biting  the  ends  of  his 
close-cut  mustache,  Selwyn  stopped  abruptly. 

"Does  Mrs.  Swink  know  he  has  left  home?" 

"If  she  doesn't,  she'll  know  it  to-morrow  when 
she  gets  my  answer  to  this."  Taking  a  letter  from 
his  pocket,  Selwyn  threw  it  on  the  table  behind 
me.  "Later  you  can  read  that,  if  you've  time  to 
waste.  I  got  it  to-day.  Harrie  hasn't  been  to 
see  Madeleine  for  over  a  week.  Mrs.  Swink  wants 
to  know  why.  Wants  to  know  where  he  is.  So 
do  I." 

"Didn't  he  dine  with  Mildred  on  Christmas 
day  ?  I  thought  both  of  you  were  always  there  at 
Christmas." 

"We  are.  When  Mildred's  Christmas  dinner  is 
over  I  thank  God  there  will  be  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  days  before  she  can  have  another  one. 
Harrie  was  all  right  when  he  came  in,  but  he  took 
too  much  egg-nog,  too  much  of  other  things  Mil- 
dred had  no  business  having.  I  tried  to  make  him 

227 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

go  home  with  me,  but  he  wouldn't  do  it.  Then  I 
tried  to  go  with  him  and  he  wouldn't  let  me  do 
that  either.  Said  he  had  an  engagement  with 
Miss  Swink.  He  was  not  in  a  condition  to  fill  it, 
but,  thinking  if  she  saw  him  Mrs.  Swink  might 
take  in  what  she  so  far  has  failed  to  understand, 
I  was  rather  glad  he  was  going  to  keep  his  engage- 
ment. He  didn't  keep  it." 

"What  did  he  do?  Where  did  he  go?" 
Selwyn's  face  darkened.  "I  don't  know.  No- 
body knows.  He  hasn't  been  in  his  apartment 
since  Christmas  day.  His  trunk  and  clothes  are 
in  his  rooms,  also  his  suit-cases  and  bags,  and 
there  is  no  evidence  of  his  having  gone  off  on  a 
trip.  I  haven't  told  Mildred.  She'd  go  into  hys- 
terics and  tell  the  town  Harrie  had  disappeared. 
Mrs.  Swink,  however,  had  to  be  told  something. 
Madeleine,  I  imagine,  has  given  notice  and  her 
mother  is  sitting  up."  Selwyn's  hands  made  ges- 
ture of  disgust.  "Her  letter  is  inquisitorial  and 
hysterical.  My  answer  will  give  a  bump,  I  im- 
agine." 

"You've  clouded  visions  and  waked  her  from 
sweet  dreaming.  She's  been  seeing  herself  in  the 
Thome  house  as  the  mother  of  its  mistress.  I 
don't  mean  to  laugh,  indeed  I  don't,  but— 
I  did  laugh.  Mrs.  Swink  and  Selwyn  dwelling 
under  the  same  roof  was  a  picture  beyond  the 

228 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

resistance  of  laughter.  Incompatibility  and  in- 
congruity would  be  feeble  terms  with  which  to 
designate  such  a  situation,  and  at  its  suggestion 
seriousness  was  impossible.  That  is,  to  me.  In 
Selwyn's  face  was  no  smiling. 

"If  there  have  been  any  little  dreams  I'm  glad 
she  wrote  me.  In  reply  I  had  a  chance  to  say 
what  there  has  been  no  chance  to  say  before. 
Were  there  imaginings  that  Harrie  was  to  bring 
his  wife  to  his  old  home  they  will  cease  when  she 
gets  my  note.  No  house  is  big  enough  for  a 
bride  and  groom  and  members  of  either  family, 
and  certainly  mine  isn't.  I  limited  comment  on 
Harrie  to  his  financial  condition ;  expressed  regret 
at  my  inability  to  explain  his  failure  to  keep  his 
engagement,  and  gave  her  no  hint  of  my  uneasi- 
ness. Only  to  you  have  I  given  it.  Something  is 
wrong.  I'm  afraid  the  boy  is  ill  somewhere.  The 
thing  has  gotten  on  my  nerves.  I've  got  to  do 
something.  I  can't  go  on  this  way." 

With  eyes  in  which  nervous  uneasiness  was  un- 
restrained, Selwyn  looked  at  me,  asking  uncon- 
sciously for  help  I  could  not  give,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment I  said  nothing.  Possibilities  of  which  I 
could  not  speak  were  clutching  at  my  heart  and 
making  me  cold  with  fear  and  horror,  for  suddenly 
something  I  had  overheard  a  girl  telling  Mrs. 
Mundy  a  few  days  before,  as  I  passed  through  the 

229 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

hall,  came  to  me  with  cruel  and  compelling  clear- 
ness. "He's  a  gentleman,  all  right.  Drunk  or 
sober,  you  can  tell  that.  She  ain't  left  him 
day  or  night  since  he  was  taken  sick,  and  except 
the  doctor  she  won't  let  any  one  come  in  the 
room." 

The  words  of  the  girl  talking  to  Mrs.  Mundy 
repeated  themselves  with  such  distinctness  that  it 
seemed  Selwyn  would  hear  the  thick  beating  of 
my  heart  and  understand  its  wonder  as  to  who 
the  man  was  who  was  ill,  who  the  girl  who  was 
nursing  him.  Did  Mrs.  Mundy  know?  Lest  he 
notice  that  I,  too,  was  nervous  I  got  up  and  went 
over  to  a  table  in  an  opposite  corner  of  the  room 
and  drank  a  glass  of  water.  Coming  back,  I  took 
my  seat,  but  Selwyn  remained  standing,  and,  tak- 
ing out  his  watch  again,  looked  at  it. 

"I  must  go.  Had  I  known  you  were  to  have  a 
party" — he  smiled  faintly — "I  should  not  have 
come.  You  are  too  tired  to  stay  up  longer.  For- 
get what  I've  told  you  and  go  to  sleep.  If  to- 
morrow you  can  suggest  anything —  I'm  pretty 
ragged  and  don't  seem  able  to  think  clearly.  You 
are  keener  than  I  in  grasping  situations,  and 
quicker  in  making  decisions.  Whatever  you  think 
might  be  done —  Again  his  teeth  came  down 
upon  his  lips,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  his  face  was 
white. 

230 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"Give  me  a  day  or  two  in  which  to  see  what 
can  be  done.  And  you  won't  mind  if  I  ask  Mr. 
Grimm's  advice?"  I  seemed  pushing  the  girl  I'd 
heard  talking  to  Mrs.  Mundy  behind  me.  "He 
hasn't  been  able  to  find  Etta  Blake  yet.  Do  you 
suppose  her  disappearance  could  have  any  con- 
nection with  Harrie's?  It  may  be  he  really 
loves  her." 

Selwyn  turned  away.  "Love  is  hardly  a  term 
to  be  used  in  connection  with  an  acquaintance- 
ship such  as  theirs.  A  girl  with  a  past,  pos- 
sibly—" 

"How  about  his  past?" 

"I  think  you  understand  pretty  well  my  opin- 
ion of  his  past.  But  as  long  as  theories  yield  to 
accepted  custom  a  man's  past  will  be  forgotten,  a 
woman's  remembered.  Harrie,  if  married,  would 
be  received  anywhere,  provided  he  married  a 
woman  of  his  world.  This  little  girl  would  have 
to  pay  her  price  and  his,  were  she  his  wife,  for  no 
one  would  receive  her.  That's  hardly  the  ques- 
tion before  us,  however.  To  find  where  Harrie  is, 
find  if  anything  is  wrong,  if  he's  ill — " 

The  sharp,  sudden  ringing  of  the  telephone  on 
the  table  behind  me  made  me  start,  and,  jumping 
up  like  a  frightened  child,  I  stood  close  to  Selwyn. 
"Who  on  earth —  It's  half  past  twelve.  Who 
can  want  me  at  this  time  of  night?"  I  started  to 

231 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

take  the  receiver  from  its  hook,  but,  laughing  at 
me,  Selwyn  got  it  first. 

"One  would  think  a  spook  was  going  to  spring 
at  you.  Central's  given  the  wrong  number,  I 
guess.  Hello!  Who  is  that?" 

Watching  with  as  strained  eagerness  as  if  I  were 
hearing,  I  saw  Selwyn  lean  forward,  after  admit- 
ting that  the  number  wanted  was  the  right  one, 
and  heard  him  ask  again:  "Who  is  it?  Who  did 
you  say?" 

For  the  next  five  minutes  there  was  snatchy, 
excited,  and  incoherent  conversation  over  the  tel- 
ephone, during  which  Selwyn  and  I  alternated  in 
the  talking  in  an  effort  to  learn  what  Tom  Cressy 
was  saying  at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  and  what 
it  was  he  wanted  me  to  do.  Tom's  voice  was  not 
distinct  and  caution  was  making  it  difficult  to 
understand  what  we  finally  got  from  him,  which 
was  that  he  wanted  to  bring  Madeleine  down  to 
spend  the  night  with  me;  that  they  had  started  to 
go  away  to  be  married  and  missed  the  train  by  one 
minute,  owing  to  an  accident  to  the  automobile 
they  were  in.  The  next  train  did  not  leave  until 
4  A.M.  Could  Madeleine  stay  with  me  until  train 
time? 

"No,  she  can't!"  Hand  over  the  telephone 
transmission,  Selwyn  turned  to  me.  "They've  got 
no  business  mixing  you  up  in  this.  You'll  be 

232 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

blamed  for  the  whole  thing.  I'm  going  to  tell  him 
to  take  her  back  to  the  Melbourne.  They  can 
make  another  try  some  other  time.  Tom  must 
be  crazy!" 

"Most  people  in  love  are.  You've  never  been 
desperate."  I  laughed  and  took  the  receiver  from 
him.  "Madeleine's  courage  will  be  gone  after  to- 
night and  Tom's  afraid  to  risk  waiting.  Get  up 
and  let  me  talk." 

Over  the  telephone  I  could  hear  Madeleine  cry- 
ing and  I  told  Tom  to  bring  her  down.  Her  two- 
penny worth  of  nerve  and  dash  had  given  out  and 
she  was  frightened.  Incoherently  I  was  told  by 
Tom  that  Madeleine  was  being  persecuted,  and 
he  wouldn't  stand  for  it  any  longer,  and  the  only 
thing  for  them  to  do  was  to  get  married.  Hadn't 
it  been  for  a  durned  tire — " 

"Come  on  down."  I  heard  a  little  cry.  "And 
hurry.  It's  pretty  late." 

Mrs.  Mundy,  who  had  been  told  of  their  coming, 
opened  the  door  for  them  in  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  and  piloted  them  up-stairs  and  into  my 
sitting-room,  where  Madeleine,  at  sight  of  Selwyn, 
burst  into  tears  and  buried  her  face  on  my  shoulder. 
But  the  ten  minutes  were  not  entirely  lost  which 
passed  before  we  understood  why  the  venture  had 
been  decided  upon  at  this  particular  time,  and 
how  hard  luck  had  prevented  its  fulfilment. 

233 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Tears  are  effective.  Selwyn  weakened  as  rapidly 
as  I  could  have  wished. 

"I  haven't  seen  Harrie  for  two  weeks.  Ever 
since  I've  been  here  he's  been  writing  me  he  was 
sick."  Madeleine's  words  came  stumblingly,  and 
the  corners  of  her  handkerchief  were  pulled  with 
nervous  movements  in  between  the  wiping  of  her 
pretty  brown  eyes.  "The  day  after  Christmas  I 
wrote  him,  breaking  our  engagement.  I've  never 
heard  from  him  since.  I  don't  even  know  that  he 
got  my  letter."  Questioningly  she  looked  at  Sel- 
wyn, and  her  face,  already  colored,  crimsoned  yet 
more  deeply. 

' ' Neither  do  I."  Selwyn's  voice  was  gentle.  In- 
dignation at  his  and  my  involvement  in  what  was 
not  an  affair  of  ours  seemed  to  have  vanished. 
"  I  redirected  a  number  of  letters  to  his  new 
address,  but — ' 

"His  new  address?"  Madeleine  looked  puz- 
zled. "I  didn't  know  he  had  a  new  address." 

"He  is  not  living  at  home  just  now."  The  flush 
in  Selwyn's  face  deepened  also.  "I  have  not  seen 
him  since  Christmas  day.  But  go  on.  I  did  not 
mean  to  interrupt  you." 

"Three  days  ago  Madeleine  told  her  mother 
she'd  broken  with  Harrie  and  was  going  to  marry 
me."  Tom  was  no  longer  to  be  repressed.  "She's 
had  the  devil  of  a  time  ever  since,  and  yesterday 

234 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

I  told  her  she  shouldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  and 
neither  would  I.  Harrie  has  hypnotized  her 
mother.  She  thinks — 

"I'm  unkind  and  unsympathetic  and  hard  and 
cruel  to  give  him  up  because  he  is  not  well.  It 
isn't  that.  You  know  it  isn't  that — "  Made- 
leine's fingers  twisted  in  appeal  and  again  her  eyes 
were  on  Selwyn.  "You  think  it's  dreadful  in  me 
not  to  marry  your  brother — 

"No,  I  don't.  I  think  it  would  be  much  more 
dreadful  in  you  if  you  did  marry  him."  Selwyn 's 
hands  made  gesture.  "However,  we'll  leave  that 
out.  You  say  you  told  your  mother  you  intended 
to  marry  Tom?" 

Handkerchief  to  her  lips,  she  nodded.  "I  told 
her,  and  Tom  wrote  her,  asking  her  consent.  She 
wouldn't  give  it,  and  said  I  was  ungrateful  and 
had  no  ambition,  and  that  if  she  had  a  stroke  I'd 
be  the  cause.  She's  never  had  a  stroke  and  is  very 
healthy,  but—" 

Bursting  into  fresh  tears,  Madeleine  this  time 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  Tom,  wanting  much 
to  comfort,  miserably  ignorant  of  how  to  do  it,  and 
consciously  awkward  and  restrained  in  the  pres- 
ence of  witnesses,  stood  by  her  side,  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  and  at  sight  of  him  I  reached  swift 
decision. 

"I'm  glad  you  told  her.  You've  been  open  and 
235 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

square  and  asked  her  consent.  One  can't  wait 
indefinitely  for  consent  to  do  things."  I  got  up 
and  took  Madeleine  by  the  hand.  "Come  in  my 
room  and  take  off  your  hat  and  coat.  When  we 
come  back  we'll  talk  about  what  is  best  to  do." 

Five  minutes  later  we  were  back  and,  eyes 
bathed  and  face  powdered,  Madeleine  gave  evi- 
dence of  fresh  injections  of  courage,  and  quickly 
we  began  to  plan.  The  4  A.  M.  train  was  the 
best  to  take,  but  for  half  an  hour  we  talked  of 
whether  Shelby  or  Claxon  was  the  better  town  to 
go  to  for  the  marriage  ceremony,  which  at  either 
place  could  be  performed  without  the  consent  of 
parent  or  guardian,  and  irrespective  of  the  age  of 
the  applicants  for  the  same.  Though  preferring 
Shelby,  Tom  agreed  to  Claxon  on  my  insisting  on 
the  latter  place,  which  was  the  Mecca  for  run- 
away couples  from  our  section  of  the  state.  If  I 
were  going  with  them — 

"Going  with  them?"  The  inflection  in 
Selwyn's  voice  was  hardly  polite.  "  You  don't 
intend — " 

"Yes,  I  do.  They've  made  a  mess  of  the  first 
try  and  they'll  be  caught  and  brought  back  if 
somebody  isn't  there  to  keep  them  from  being 
held  up.  I'm  going  with  them." 

"How  do  you  expect  to  hold  off — the  holding 
up?"  Selwyn  was  staring  at  me  and  anxiety  con- 

236 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

earning  Harrie  was  for  the  time  in  abeyance.  He 
needed  something  to  distract  him.  "What  are 
you  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

1 '  I  don't  know — don't  have  to  knowuntil  to-mor- 
row— I  mean  later  to-day."  I  motioned  toward 
the  hall  and,  following  me  into  it,  he  partly  closed 
the  door  behind  us.  "We'll  let  those  children  have 
a  chance  to  say  good  night,  and  then  please  go  home. 
And  don't  look  at  me  like  that!  I  don't  approve 
of  runaway  marriages  any  more  than  you  do.  I'd 
never  be  a  party  to  one,  because  I  wouldn't  marry 
an  angel-man  before  I  was  twenty-one.  After- 
ward running  away  wouldn't  be  necessary.  Tom 
and  Madeleine  are  not  entirely  to  blame." 

"The  blame  for  this  will  be  put  on  you.  Mrs. 
Swink  will  credit  you  with  the  instigation  and 
carrying  out  of  the  whole  affair.  You  mustn't  go 
with  them,  Danny.  It  isn't  necessary." 

"Maybe  it  isn't,  but  I'm  going.  I  can't  let  a 
girl  of  Madeleine's  age  leave  the  house  alone  at 
half  past  three  in  the  morning,  and  certainly  I 
cannot  let  Tom  come  here  for  her.  We  will  get 
to  Claxon  at  ten  o'clock  and  by  that  time  Mrs. 
Swink  will  have  finished  her  swooning  and  be 
working  the  wires.  They'll  certainly  be  held  up 
at  Claxon." 

"Then  why  go  there?  Why  not  go  on  to 
Shelby?" 

16  237 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

I  shook  my  head.  "Claxon  is  the  better  place. 
I  don't  know  how  it's  going  to  be  managed,  but  if 
one  couldn't  outmanceuver  mother  Swink — .  It 
doesn't  matter  about  my  being  blamed  for  helping 
them.  Long  usage  has  accustomed  me  to  large 
shares  of  blame."  I  held  out  my  hand.  "I'll  be 
back  to-morrow  night.  Come  Thursday.  I  think 
by  then—" 

"There  are  few  things  you  will  let  me  share  with 
you,  but  the  blame  that  will  come  from  this  I  am 
going  to  share  whether  you  let  me  or  not.  I've 
gotten  you  into  it  and  we'll  see  it  through  to- 
gether. If  you  are  going  with  them,  I  am  going 
also.  Good  night."  He  dropped  the  hand  he  was 
holding  and  turned  away.  "Tell  Tom  I'm  wait- 
ing, will  you?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

'"FELLING  Madeleine  not  to  unpack  her  bags, 
•*•  I  gave  her  one  of  my  kimonos  and  ordered  her 
to  lie  down  while  I  slipped  down-stairs  for  a  few 
words  with  Mrs.  Mundy.  There  was  time  for  only 
a  hurried  talk,  but  during  it  I  told  her  what  I 
wanted  her  to  do,  what  she  must  get  Mr.  Crimm 
to  do,  and  also,  if  inquiry  was  made  for  me  during 
the  coming  day  she  was  to  say  I  was  out  and  she 
did  not  know  just  when  I  would  be  in.  As  Mrs. 
Swink  was  unaware  that  her  daughter  had  made 
frequent  visits  to  Scarborough  Square  at  the  same 
time  Mr.  Thomas  Cressy  happened  to  be  there, 
she  was  hardly  apt  to  associate  me  with  their  de- 
parture from  the  city ;  still,  with  less  justice  I  have 
been  held  responsible  for  things  with  which  I  had 
nothing  to  do,  and,  that  Mrs.  Mundy  be  prepared 
for  possible  questions,  I  gave  her  a  few  instruc- 
tions concerning  them. 

She  recalled  clearly  the  conversation  of  which 
I  had  heard  a  few  words,  but  the  girl  talking  to  her 
had  not  mentioned  the  name  of  the  girl  of  whom 

239 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

she  talked,  or  of  that  of  the  man  who  was  being 
nursed  by  her. 

' '  She  spoke  of  her  as  a  friend  who  was  a  fool  to 
care  for  a  man  as  she  cared."  Mrs.  Mundy  put 
her  hand  to  her  mouth  to  cover  a  yawn.  "She 
said—" 

I  got  up.  It  was  too  late  for  details.  "Find  the 
girl  who  came  to  see  you,  and  if  the  friend  of  whom 
she  is  speaking  is  Etta  Blake,  get  her  address  and 
go  to  see  her,  if  you  can.  If  not,  send  Mr.  Crimm. 
Tell  the  latter  he  must  find  Harrie.  He  may  be 
somewhere  under  an  assumed  name.  So  may  Etta 
Blake.  Do  you  suppose  it  is  possible  they — can 
be  together  somewhere?" 

"Anything  is  possible."  Mrs.  Mundy  blinked 
her  eyes  bravely  to  prevent  my  seeing  the  over- 
powering sleep  in  them,  and  quickly  I  went  to  the 
door. 

"It's  a  shame  you  have  to  go  to  the  train  with 
us.  You  can  come  right  back,  however,  and  sleep 
as  late  as  you  want.  The  cab  will  be  here  at 
three-thirty.  Take  a  nap  until  then,  and  don't 
look  so  worried.  I'm  not  committing  a  crime. 
I'm  helping  to  keep  some  one  else  from  committing 
one.  Good  night."  I  kissed  the  dear  soul  and, 
leaving  her,  hurried  up-stairs. 

Madeleine  was  lying  down  when  I  came  back 
in  the  room,  and,  wanting  much  to  talk,  she  began 

240 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

to  do  so,  but  unfeelingly  I  made  her  stop.  Getting 
out  the  oldest  and  shabbiest  dress  I  possessed, 
with  a  hat  to  correspond,  I  took  off  my  party 
dress  and  slipped  into  a  warm  and  worn  wrapper. 
After  putting  a  few  things  in  a  bag,  without  further 
undressing,  I  stretched  out  on  the  couch  near  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  in  the  dark  called  to  Madeleine. 

"You  won't  be  a  beautiful  bride  if  you  don't 
get  some  sleep.  Shut  your  eyes."  Mine  were  shut. 
I  wasn't  going  to  be  married.  I  was  only  a  very 
tired  maiden-lady  about  to  do  something  she  had 
no  business  doing,  and  shamelessly  I  went  to  sleep 
and  left  Madeleine  awake. 

Seemingly  I  had  slept  but  a  few  minutes  when, 
opening  my  eyes,  I  saw  Madeleine  standing,  fully 
dressed,  by  the  side  of  my  couch,  and  looking 
down  at  me.  "It's  ten  minutes  past  three,"  she 
said.  "I  hate  to  wake  you,  but — " 

Springing  up,  I  threw  off  my  wrapper  and 
reached  down  for  my  shoes.  "If  you'd  waked  me 
before  you  put  on  your  dress  you  wouldn't  have 
to  take  it  off.  You're  going  to  wear  that  dress." 
I  pointed  to  the  one  on  the  chair  behind  her.  "I'm 
sorry  your  wedding  garments  can't  be  more  fes- 
tive, and  that  I'll  have  to  wear  your  good  clothes, 
but  we  mustn't  run  risks  merely  for  pride.  Take 
your  dress  off  quickly  and  give  it  to  me.  Don't 
look  at  me,  but  hurry." 

241 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Madeleine's  mind  does  not  work  as  quickly  as 
some  people's,  and  a  little  time  was  lost  in  explain- 
ing that  any  description  to  which  she  would  an- 
swer would  have  to  apply  to  me,  not  her.  In  con- 
sequence the  cab  was  at  the  door  before  she  was 
fully  garmented  in  my  plainest  clothes  and  I 
arrayed  in  her  beautiful  ones,  and  regretfully  she 
looked  at  me.  I  am  taller  and  slenderer  than 
Madeleine,  but  fashion  was  in  my  favor,  and  the 
absence  of  fit  and  shortness  of  skirt  gave  emphasis 
of  adherence  to  its  requirements,  I  looked  the 
part.  She  didn't. 

At  the  station  Tom  and  Selwyn  were  waiting  and 
their  puzzled  incomprehension  was  even  greater 
than  Madeleine's  had  been.  Explanations  in- 
cluded a  few  suggestions  as  to  the  wisdom  of  our 
separating  and,  the  men  agreeing,  Selwyn  and  I 
went  in  the  Pullman,  and  poor  little  rich  Made- 
leine and  Tom  to  a  day-coach,  where  crying  babies 
and  peanut-hulls  and  close  air  and  torn  papers 
would  have  made  them  wretchedly  unhappy  had 
they  not  been  happily  unconscious  of  them.  I 
was  sorry  for  them,  but  marriage  involves  much. 
As  the  train  pulled  out  I  waved  from  the  window 
to  Mrs.  Mundy,  who,  on  the  platform,  waved  back 
with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  wiped  her  eyes. 
Mrs.  Mundy  loves  me,  but  she,  too,  does  not  al- 
ways approve  of  me. 

24.2 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Travel  evidently  was  light.  The  sleeper  in 
which  we  found  ourselves  had  barely  two-thirds 
of  the  berths  made  up,  and,  the  rest  of  the  seats 
being  empty,  we  took  ours  in  a  corner  where  in  an 
undertone  we  could  talk  and  not  disturb  others. 
Taking  off  Madeleine's  handsome  fur  coat  and 
newest  hat  I  put  the  latter  in  its  paper  bag  and 
gave  the  former  to  Selwyn  to  hang  on  a  hook. 
Gloves  and  other  things  being  disposed  of,  I  again 
sat  down  and  suggested  that  he,  also,  make  him- 
self comfortable,  and  at  the  same  time  change  his 
expression. 

"Later  you  can  smoke,  but  at  present  you  will 
have  to  be  in  here  where  I'm  compelled  to  look  at 
you.  The  photographic  injunction  to  look  pleas- 
ant oughtn't  to  apply  only  to  the  taking  of  pic- 
tures. For  the  love  of  Heaven,  sit  down,  Selwyn, 
and  behave  yourself!" 

Selwyn  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  took  the 
seat  opposite  mine.  From  him  came  radiation 
of  endurance,  and,  objecting  to  being  endured,  I 
spoke  impatiently.  I  did  not  care  to  be  traveling 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  any  more  than  he 
did,  but  much  in  life  has  to  be  done  that  isn't 

* 

preferable.  He  had  invited  himself  to  take  the 
trip.  His  desire  to  share  any  criticism  coming  to 
me  for  my  part  in  it  was  sincere,  but  rather  than 
shielding  it  might  subject  me  to  an  increased 

243 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

amount.  For  the  first  time  such  a  possibility  came 
to  me,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  his  eyes  were  gravely 
watching  me. 

"I  thought  I  was  behaving.  I'm  willing  to 
play  the  part  properly  if  I  know  the  part,  but 
I  don't  know  it.  Your  intimations  have  been 
indefinite." 

' '  There's  been  no  time  for  any  other  sort.  When 
Mrs.  Swink  learns  that  Madeleine  and  Tom  have 
run  away  she  will  begin  to  ask  where,  and  some- 
body will  certainly  suggest  Claxon." 

"Then  why  go  to  Claxon?" 

"They're  not  going  to  Claxon.  We  are  going 
there.  Just  this  side  is  a  little  station  at  which 
they  can  take  a  local  for  Shelby.  They  will  change 
at  this  station  and  go  to  Shelby  while  we  keep  on 
to  Claxon  and  get  off  there." 

"But  last  night  you  insisted  on  their  going  to 
Claxon."  Selwyn's  voice  implied  that  a  woman's 
methods  of  management  were  beyond  a  man's 
understanding. 

"  Inquiries  will  be  made  as  to  who  bought 
tickets  for  Claxon.  Mrs.  Swink  will  have  the 
whole  police  department  running  around  for  clues 
and  things.  I  told  you  not  to  buy  tickets.  Did 
you?" 

"I  did  not.  I'm  taking  orders  and  doing  what 
I'm  told,  but,  being  new  at  it,  I  don't  work  as 

244 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

smoothly  as  I  might.    Is  there  any  special  reason 
why  I  shouldn't  have  bought  tickets?" 

"There  is."  I  opened  my  pocket-book,  and, 
taking  out  a  note,  handed  it  to  him.  "I'll  take 
breakfast  with  you  but  I'll  have  to  pay  my  railroad 
fare.  I  didn't  want  you  to  get  tickets,  because  if 
two  couples  bought  them  it  would  cause  confusion 
and  telegrams  might  be  sent  to  Shelby  also.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  think  it  all  out  last  night. 
I  only  knew  Tom  and  Madeleine  must  seemingly 
go  to  Claxon  and  yet  not  go.  I  wasn't  sure  what 
could  be  done,  but  after  you  decided  to  come  I 
thought  we  could  play  the  part  and  give  them  time 
to  be  married  at  Shelby." 

"You  mean  you  and  I  are  to  pretend  we  are 
somebody  else,  mean — " 

Selwyn's  voice  was  protestingly  puzzled.  Im- 
personation did  not  appeal. 

"There'll  be  no  necessity  to  pretend.  If  a 
sheriff,  with  orders  to  do  so,  takes  charge  of  us 
he  will  hardly  believe  our  assertion  that  we  are 
not  the  parties  wanted.  He's  used  to  that.  All 
we  will  have  to  do  is  to  wait  until  Tom  and  Mad- 
eleine come  back.  When  they  show  as  proper  a 
marriage  certificate  as  a  dairy-maid  and  farmer- 
laddie  ever  framed  he  will  let  us  go.  You  don't 
look  as  if  playing  groom  to  my  bride  pleases  you. 
I'm  sorry,  but — ' 

245 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Into  Selwyn's  eyes  came  that  which  made  me 
turn  mine  away  and  look  out  of  the  window.  Un- 
thinkingly I  had  invited  what  he  was  going  to  say. 
"Playing  groom  does  not  interest  me.  Why  play? 
And  stop  looking  out  of  the  window."  He  changed 
his  seat  and  took  the  one  beside  me.  ' '  Look  at  me, 
Danny.  Why  can't  we  be  married  at  Claxon? 
We'll  wait  for  those  children  to  come  back  and 
then—" 

"Is  that  exactly  fair?"  I  drew  away  the  hands 
he  was  hurting  in  his  tense  grip.  ' '  I  hardly  thought 
you'd  take — "  I  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  back  quick 
tears  for  which  there  was  no  accounting.  Some- 
thing curious  was  suddenly  possessing  me,  some- 
thing that  for  weeks  I  had  seemed  fighting  and  re- 
sisting. An  overmastering  desire  to  give  in;  to 
surrender,  to  yield  to  his  love  for  me,  to  mine  for 
him,  was  disarming  me,  and  swift,  inexplicable 
impulse  to  marry  him  and  give  up  the  thing  I  was 
trying  to  do  urged  and  swept  over  me.  And  then 
I  remembered  his  house  with  its  high  walls.  And 
I  remembered  Scarborough  Square.  Until  there 
was  between  them  sympathy  and  understanding 
there  could  be  no  abiding  basis  on  which  love  could 
build  and  find  enrichment  and  fulfilment.  Straight- 
ening, I  sat  up,  but  I  was  conscious  of  being  very 
tired. 

"Please  don't,  Selwyn."  The  hand  I  had  drawn 
246 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

away  I  held  out  to  him.  "We  must  not  think  or 
talk  of  ourselves  to-day.  This  is  not  our  day." 

"But  I  want  my  day."  His  strong  fingers 
twisted  into  mine  with  bruising  force.  "I  have 
waited  long  for  it.  For  all  others  you  have  con- 
sideration, but  my  happiness  alone  you  ignore. 
You  seem  to  think  my  endurance  is  beyond  limit. 
How  long  are  you  going  to  keep  this  thing  up? 
Some  day  you  are  going  to  marry  me.  Why  not 
to-day?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "I  cannot  marry  you  to- 
day. Take  care—  The  conductor  was  coming 
down  the  aisle  toward  us. 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

I  shook  my  head.  "Claxon  is  the  better  place. 
I  don't  know  how  it's  going  to  be  managed,  but  if 
one  couldn't  outmanceuver  mother  Swink — .  It 
doesn't  matter  about  my  being  blamed  for  helping 
them.  Long  usage  has  accustomed  me  to  large 
shares  of  blame."  I  held  out  my  hand.  "I'll  be 
back  to-morrow  night.  Come  Thursday.  I  think 
by  then—" 

"There  are  few  things  you  will  let  me  share  with 
you,  but  the  blame  that  will  come  from  this  I  am 
going  to  share  whether  you  let  me  or  not.  I've 
gotten  you  into  it  and  we'll  see  it  through  to- 
gether. If  you  are  going  with  them,  I  am  going 
also.  Good  night."  He  dropped  the  hand  he  was 
holding  and  turned  away.  "Tell  Tom  I'm  wait- 
ing, will  you?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SPELLING  Madeleine  not  to  unpack  her  bags, 
•*•  I  gave  her  one  of  my  kimonos  and  ordered  her 
to  lie  down  while  I  slipped  down-stairs  for  a  few 
words  with  Mrs.  Mundy.  There  was  time  for  only 
a  hurried  talk,  but  during  it  I  told  her  what  I 
wanted  her  to  do,  what  she  must  get  Mr.  Crimm 
to  do,  and  also,  if  inquiry  was  made  for  me  during 
the  coming  day  she  was  to  say  I  was  out  and  she 
did  not  know  just  when  I  would  be  in.  As  Mrs. 
Swink  was  unaware  that  her  daughter  had  made 
frequent  visits  to  Scarborough  Square  at  the  same 
time  Mr.  Thomas  Cressy  happened  to  be  there, 
she  was  hardly  apt  to  associate  me  with  their  de- 
parture from  the  city ;  still,  with  less  justice  I  have 
been  held  responsible  for  things  with  which  I  had 
nothing  to  do,  and,  that  Mrs.  Mundy  be  prepared 
for  possible  questions,  I  gave  her  a  few  instruc- 
tions concerning  them. 

She  recalled  clearly  the  conversation  of  which 
I  had  heard  a  few  words,  but  the  girl  talking  to  her 
had  not  mentioned  the  name  of  the  girl  of  whom 

239 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

she  talked,  or  of  that  of  the  man  who  was  being 
nursed  by  her. 

' '  She  spoke  of  her  as  a  friend  who  was  a  fool  to 
care  for  a  man  as  she  cared."  Mrs.  Mundy  put 
her  hand  to  her  mouth  to  cover  a  yawn.  "She 
said—" 

I  got  up.  It  was  too  late  for  details.  "Find  the 
girl  who  came  to  see  you,  and  if  the  friend  of  whom 
she  is  speaking  is  Etta  Blake,  get  her  address  and 
go  to  see  her,  if  you  can.  If  not,  send  Mr.  Crimm. 
Tell  the  latter  he  must  find  Harrie.  He  may  be 
somewhere  under  an  assumed  name.  So  may  Etta 
Blake.  Do  you  suppose  it  is  possible  they — can 
be  together  somewhere?" 

"Anything  is  possible."  Mrs.  Mundy  blinked 
her  eyes  bravely  to  prevent  my  seeing  the  over- 
powering sleep  in  them,  and  quickly  I  went  to  the 
door. 

"It's  a  shame  you  have  to  go  to  the  train  with 
us.  You  can  come  right  back,  however,  and  sleep 
as  late  as  you  want.  The  cab  will  be  here  at 
three-thirty.  Take  a  nap  until  then,  and  don't 
look  so  worried.  I'm  not  committing  a  crime. 
I'm  helping  to  keep  some  one  else  from  committing 
one.  Good  night."  I  kissed  the  dear  soul  and, 
leaving  her,  hurried  up-stairs. 

Madeleine  was  lying  down  when  I  came  back 
in  the  room,  and,  wanting  much  to  talk,  she  began 

240 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

to  do  so,  but  unfeelingly  I  made  her  stop.  Getting 
out  the  oldest  and  shabbiest  dress  I  possessed, 
with  a  hat  to  correspond,  I  took  off  my  party 
dress  and  slipped  into  a  warm  and  worn  wrapper. 
After  putting  a  few  things  in  a  bag,  without  further 
undressing,  I  stretched  out  on  the  couch  near  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  in  the  dark  called  to  Madeleine. 

"You  won't  be  a  beautiful  bride  if  you  don't 
get  some  sleep.  Shut  your  eyes."  Mine  were  shut. 
I  wasn't  going  to  be  married.  I  was  only  a  very 
tired  maiden-lady  about  to  do  something  she  had 
no  business  doing,  and  shamelessly  I  went  to  sleep 
and  left  Madeleine  awake. 

Seemingly  I  had  slept  but  a  few  minutes  when, 
opening  my  eyes,  I  saw  Madeleine  standing,  fully 
dressed,  by  the  side  of  my  couch,  and  looking 
down  at  me.  "It's  ten  minutes  past  three,"  she 
said.  "I  hate  to  wake  you,  but — " 

Springing  up,  I  threw  off  my  wrapper  and 
reached  down  for  my  shoes.  "If  you'd  waked  me 
before  you  put  on  your  dress  you  wouldn't  have 
to  take  it  off.  You're  going  to  wear  that  dress." 
I  pointed  to  the  one  on  the  chair  behind  her.  "I'm 
sorry  your  wedding  garments  can't  be  more  fes- 
tive, and  that  I'll  have  to  wear  your  good  clothes, 
but  we  mustn't  run  risks  merely  for  pride.  Take 
your  dress  off  quickly  and  give  it  to  me.  Don't 
look  at  me,  but  hurry." 

241 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Madeleine's  mind  does  not  work  as  quickly  as 
some  people's,  and  a  little  time  was  lost  in  explain- 
ing that  any  description  to  which  she  would  an- 
swer would  have  to  apply  to  me,  not  her.  In  con- 
sequence the  cab  was  at  the  door  before  she  was 
fully  garmented  in  my  plainest  clothes  and  I 
arrayed  in  her  beautiful  ones,  and  regretfully  she 
looked  at  me.  I  am  taller  and  slenderer  than 
Madeleine,  but  fashion  was  in  my  favor,  and  the 
absence  of  fit  and  shortness  of  skirt  gave  emphasis 
of  adherence  to  its  requirements.  I  looked  the 
part.  She  didn't. 

At  the  station  Tom  and  Selwyn  were  waiting  and 
their  puzzled  incomprehension  was  even  greater 
than  Madeleine's  had  been.  Explanations  in- 
cluded a  few  suggestions  as  to  the  wisdom  of  our 
separating  and,  the  men  agreeing,  Selwyn  and  I 
went  in  the  Pullman,  and  poor  little  rich  Made- 
leine and  Tom  to  a  day-coach,  where  crying  babies 
and  peanut-hulls  and  close  air  and  torn  papers 
would  have  made  them  wretchedly  unhappy  had 
they  not  been  happily  unconscious  of  them.  I 
was  sorry  for  them,  but  marriage  involves  much. 
As  the  train  pulled  out  I  waved  from  the  window 
to  Mrs.  Mundy,  who,  on  the  platform,  waved  back 
with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  wiped  her  eyes. 
Mrs.  Mundy  loves  me,  but  she,  too,  does  not  al- 
ways approve  of  me. 

2d2 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Travel  evidently  was  light.  The  sleeper  in 
which  we  found  ourselves  had  barely  two-thirds 
of  the  berths  made  up,  and,  the  rest  of  the  seats 
being  empty,  we  took  ours  in  a  corner  where  in  an 
undertone  we  could  talk  and  not  disturb  others. 
Taking  off  Madeleine's  handsome  fur  coat  and 
newest  hat  I  put  the  latter  in  its  paper  bag  and 
gave  the  former  to  Selwyn  to  hang  on  a  hook. 
Gloves  and  other  things  being  disposed  of,  I  again 
sat  down  and  suggested  that  he,  also,  make  him- 
self comfortable,  and  at  the  same  time  change  his 
expression. 

"Later  you  can  smoke,  but  at  present  you  will 
have  to  be  in  here  where  I'm  compelled  to  look  at 
you.  The  photographic  injunction  to  look  pleas- 
ant oughtn't  to  apply  only  to  the  taking  of  pic- 
tures. For  the  love  of  Heaven,  sit  down,  Selwyn, 
and  behave  yourself!" 

Selwyn  hung  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  took  the 
seat  opposite  mine.  From  him  came  radiation 
of  endurance,  and,  objecting  to  being  endured,  I 
spoke  impatiently.  I  did  not  care  to  be  traveling 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  any  more  than  he 
did,  but  much  in  life  has  to  be  donejthat  isn't 
preferable.  He  had  invited  himself  to  take  the 
trip.  His  desire  to  share  any  criticism  coming  to 
me  for  my  part  in  it  was  sincere,  but  rather  than 
shielding  it  might  subject  me  to  an  increased 

243 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

amount.  For  the  first  time  such  a  possibility  came 
to  me,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  his  eyes  were  gravely 
watching  me. 

"I  thought  I  was  behaving.  I'm  willing  to 
play  the  part  properly  if  I  know  the  part,  but 
I  don't  know  it.  Your  intimations  have  been 
indefinite." 

"There's  been  no  time  for  any  other  sort.  When 
Mrs.  Swink  learns  that  Madeleine  and  Tom  have 
run  away  she  will  begin  to  ask  where,  and  some- 
body will  certainly  suggest  Claxon." 

"Then  why  go  to  Claxon?" 

"They're  not  going  to  Claxon.  We  are  going 
there.  Just  this  side  is  a  little  station  at  which 
they  can  take  a  local  for  Shelby.  They  will  change 
at  this  station  and  go  to  Shelby  while  we  keep  on 
to  Claxon  and  get  off  there." 

"But  last  night  you  insisted  on  their  going  to 
Claxon."  Selwyn's  voice  implied  that  a  woman's 
methods  of  management  were  beyond  a  man's 
understanding. 

"  Inquiries  will  be  made  as  to  who  bought 
tickets  for  Claxon.  Mrs.  Swink  will  have  the 
whole  police  department  running  around  for  clues 
and  things.  I  told  you  not  to  buy  tickets.  Did 
you?" 

"I  did  not.  I'm  taking  orders  and  doing  what 
I'm  told,  but,  being  new  at  it,  I  don't  work  as 

244 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

smoothly  as  I  might.    Is  there  any  special  reason 
why  I  shouldn't  have  bought  tickets?" 

"There  is."  I  opened  my  pocket-book,  and, 
taking  out  a  note,  handed  it  to  him.  "I'll  take 
breakfast  with  you  but  I'll  have  to  pay  my  railroad 
fare.  I  didn't  want  you  to  get  tickets,  because  if 
two  couples  bought  them  it  would  cause  confusion 
and  telegrams  might  be  sent  to  Shelby  also.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  think  it  all  out  last  night. 
I  only  knew  Tom  and  Madeleine  must  seemingly 
go  to  Claxon  and  yet  not  go.  I  wasn't  sure  what 
could  be  done,  but  after  you  decided  to  come  I 
thought  we  could  play  the  part  and  give  them  time 
to  be  married  at  Shelby." 

"You  mean  you  and  I  are  to  pretend  we  are 
somebody  else,  mean — " 

Selwyn's  voice  was  protestingly  puzzled.  Im- 
personation did  not  appeal. 

"There'll  be  no  necessity  to  pretend.  If  a 
sheriff,  with  orders  to  do  so,  takes  charge  of  us 
he  will  hardly  believe  our  assertion  that  we  are 
not  the  parties  wanted.  He's  used  to  that.  All 
we  will  have  to  do  is  to  wait  until  Tom  and  Mad- 
eleine come  back.  When  they  show  as  proper  a 
marriage  certificate  as  a  dairy-maid  and  farmer- 
laddie  ever  framed  he  will  let  us  go.  You  don't 
look  as  if  playing  groom  to  my  bride  pleases  you. 
I'm  sorry,  but — " 

245 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

Into  Selwyn's  eyes  came  that  which  made  me 
turn  mine  away  and  look  out  of  the  window.  Un- 
thinkingly I  had  invited  what  he  was  going  to  say. 
"Playing  groom  does  not  interest  me.  Why  play? 
And  stop  looking  out  of  the  window. ' '  He  changed 
his  seat  and  took  the  one  beside  me.  ' '  Look  at  me, 
Danny.  Why  can't  we  be  married  at  Claxon? 
We'll  wait  for  those  children  to  come  back  and 
then—" 

"Is  that  exactly  fair?"  I  drew  away  the  hands 
he  was  hurting  in  his  tense  grip.  ' '  I  hardly  thought 
you'd  take — "  I  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  back  quick 
tears  for  which  there  was  no  accounting.  Some- 
thing curious  was  suddenly  possessing  me,  some- 
thing that  for  weeks  I  had  seemed  fighting  and  re- 
sisting. An  overmastering  desire  to  give  in;  to 
surrender,  to  yield  to  his  love  for  me,  to  mine  for 
him,  was  disarming  me,  and  swift,  inexplicable 
impulse  to  marry  him  and  give  up  the  thing  I  was 
trying  to  do  urged  and  swept  over  me.  And  then 
I  remembered  his  house  with  its  high  walls.  And 
I  remembered  Scarborough  Square.  Until  there 
was  between  them  sympathy  and  understanding 
there  could  be  no  abiding  basis  on  which  love  could 
build  and  find  enrichment  and  fulfilment.  Straight- 
ening, I  sat  up,  but  I  was  conscious  of  being  very 
tired. 

"Please  don't,  Selwyn."  The  hand  I  had  drawn 
246 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

away  I  held  out  to  him.  "We  must  not  think  or 
talk  of  ourselves  to-day.  This  is  not  our  day." 

"But  I  want  my  day."  His  strong  fingers 
twisted  into  mine  with  bruising  force.  "I  have 
waited  long  for  it.  For  all  others  you  have  con- 
sideration, but  my  happiness  alone  you  ignore. 
You  seem  to  think  my  endurance  is  beyond  limit. 
How  long  are  you  going  to  keep  this  thing  up? 
Some  day  you  are  going  to  marry  me.  Why  not 
to-day?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "I  cannot  marry  you  to- 
day. Take  care — "  The  conductor  was  coming 
down  the  aisle  toward  us. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

BY  the  time  we  learn  a  few  of  the  lessons  life 
teaches  we  stop  living.  I  should  have  known 
it  is  the  unexpected  that  happens,  but  I  forgot  it. 
What  I  expected  at  Claxon  did  not  come  to  pass. 

At  a  little  station  a  few  miles  east  of  the  tiny 
town  to  which  we  were  going,  Tom  and  Mad- 
eleine left  our  train  and  waited  for  a  crawling  ac- 
commodation to  Shelby,  where,  later,  they  would 
be  married.  From  the  car  window  I  waved  to 
them  and  tried  to  transmit  a  portion  of  my  cour- 
age, for  which  there  was  no  credit,  and  of  my 
enjoyment,  of  which  I  should  have  been  ashamed 
and  was  not  ashamed.  A  taste  for  adventure  will 
ever  be  a  part  of  me,  and  I  was  getting  much  more 
pleasure  out  of  an  unexpected  experience  than 
Madeleine  was.  The  playing  of  shadow  to  her 
substance  was  not  so  serious  for  me  as  for  her, 
and  then,  too,  I  had  the  joyful  irresponsibility  of 
not  going  to  be  married.  I  do  not  want  to  be  a 
married  person  yet. 

As  we  left  the  car  at  Claxon  I  glanced  in  the 
248 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

mirror  at  the  end  of  our  coach  and  was  pleased. 
About  me  was  a  bridal  atmosphere  that  was  un- 
mistakable. Madeleine's  clothes  were  new  and 
lovely  and  I  looked  well.  So  did  Selwyn.  As  we 
reached  the  platform  I  was  undecided  whether  to 
cling  timidly  to  Selwyn's  arm  or  to  walk  bravely 
apart,  and  the  indecision,  together  with  the  cer- 
tainty that  some  one  would  put  a  hand  on  Selwyn's 
shoulder  and  say  words  I  had  never  before  heard, 
made  my  heart  beat  with  a  rapidity  that  was  as 
genuine  as  if  I  were  soon  to  become  a  bride  in  very 
truth.  The  sensation  was  exhilarating.  I  liked  it. 
On  the  platform  of  the  little  station  a  few  ne- 
groes in  overalls,  two  boys,  and  five  men,  having 
apparently  nothing  to  do,  were  hanging  around, 
hands  in  their  pockets;  and,  looking  about  me,  I 
waited.  Nothing  happened.  Ahead  of  us  and 
across  a  muddy  road  half  a  dozen  stores,  hunched 
together  in  a  row  of  detached  and  shabby  frame 
houses,  with  upper  stories  seemingly  used  for  resi- 
dential purposes,  comprised  the  business  portion 
of  the  little  town,  and  on  our  right  the  post-office, 
telegraph  and  express  offices,  and  telephone  ex- 
change were  in  the  one  large  building  of  the  place. 
Out  of  each  window  facing  us  some  one  was  look- 
ing, and  in  the  open  door  a  man  was  standing,  hat 
off  and  sweater-coated,  who,  at  regular  intervals, 
and  with  unfailing  accuracy  of  aim,  ejected  tobacco 

249 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

juice  into  a  puddle  of  water  some  distance  away. 
No  one  but  ourselves  got  off  the  train,  and,  its 
stay  at  the  station  being  short,  the  attention  of 
the  loungers  near  by  and  those  resting  themselves 
on  boxes  and  barrels  in  front  of  the  stores  across 
the  road  was  turned  determinatedly  to  us.  I 
looked  at  Selwyn.  In  his  face  was  relief.  In  mine 
was  anxiety  and,  I'm  afraid,  disappointment. 
The  situation  was  flat. 

I  had  read  various  accounts  of  runaway  mar- 
riages which  had  taken  place  at  Claxon,  several 
of  which  had  only  succeeded  after  eluding  the 
sheriff,  waiting  under  orders  from  irate  parents  to 
arrest  them;  and  feeling  confident  Mrs.  Swink 
would  wire  the  proper  person  to  prevent  the  mar- 
riage of  her  daughter,  I  looked  around  for  the  one 
most  likely  to  do  the  work.  No  one  appeared. 
What  if  my  plan  had  failed  and  Madeleine,  in 
my  un-wedding  garments,  was  to  be  taken  into 
custody  in  Shelby?  I  turned  to  Selwyn. 

"Do  you  suppose — "  My  voice  was  low.  A 
man  close  to  me,  with  hands  in  his  pockets,  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  his  left  cheek  lumpy,  was 
looking  at  us  appraisingly.  "Do  you  suppose  any- 
thing will  happen  at  Shelby?  Nothing  is  happen- 
ing here." 

Selwyn's  sigh  of  relief  was  long.  "If  nothing 
happens  here  I'll  thank  God.  To  keep  it  out  of 

250 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

the  papers  would  have  been  impossible.  Stay 
here  while  I  see  if  there  is  a  decent  hotel."  He 
looked  around  speculatively.  In  the  distance  a 
man  could  be  seen  on  horseback  coming  down  the 
road  which  wound  from  the  top  of  a  mountain  to 
the  valley  below,  while  at  our  left  a  covered  ox- 
cart, a  farm  wagon,  and  a  Ford  car  were  waiting 
for  their  owners.  Nothing  in  which  we  could  ride, 
however,  was  seemingly  in  sight.  A  sudden  de- 
sire to  go  somewhere,  do  something,  possessed  me. 
The  day  was  mild,  and  the  air  clean  and  clear  and 
calling,  and  the  sunshine  brilliant.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful day.  We  must  go  somewhere. 

For  weeks  I  had  been  face  to  face  with  cruel 
conditions  of  life,  had  seen  hardships  and  denials 
and  injustices,  and  dreary  monotony  of  days,  and 
I  wanted  for  a  while  to  get  away  from  it  all,  to 
breathe  deep  of  that  which  would  renew  and  re- 
inforce and  revitalize;  wanted  to  be  a  child  again, 
and,  writh  Selwyn  as  my  playmate,  wander  along 
the  winding  road  with  faces  to  the  sun,  and  hearts 
of  hope,  and  faith  that  God  would  not  forget,  and 
the  world  would  yet  be  well.  If  nobody  was  going 
to  do  anything  to  us,  if  we  were  not  needed  to 
play  a  part,  the  hours  ahead  could  be  ours.  The 
train  on  which  we  were  to  return  did  not  leave 
until  three-thirty.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was 
ten-thirty. 

251 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"Get  something  from  somebody."  My  hand 
made  movement  toward  the  men  about  us  and 
then  in  the  direction  of  the  shacks  and  sheds  and 
cabins  of  the  negroes,  scattered  at  wide  intervals 
apart  from  the  village,  which  consisted  of  a  long, 
rambling  street  with  a  white  frame  church  at  one 
end,  a  gray  one  at  the  other,  a  court-house  in  the 
middle,  and  a  school-house  at  its  back.  "Get  a 
buggy  and  something  you  can  drive  and  let's  have 
a  holiday — just  by  ourselves.  What  is  that  house 
over  there?" 

I  pointed  to  a  square,  old-fashioned  red-brick 
building  set  well  back  from  the  road  and  sur- 
rounded ^b.y  great  oak-trees,  and  smaller  ones  of 
birch  and  maple  and  spruce  and  pine,  and  shrubs 
of  various  kinds.  It  was  Claxon's  one  redemption. 
Shading  my  eyes,  I  read  the  tin  sign  swinging  in 
the  wind  from  a  rod  nailed  at  right  angles  to  a 
sagging  post  at  its  gateless  yard.  "Swan  Tavern." 
The  name  thrilled.  I  was  no  longer  a  twentieth- 
century  person,  but  a  lady  of  other  days,  and  if  a 
coach  and  four  with  outriders  had  appeared  I 
would  have  stepped  in  it  with  delight.  It  did  not 
appear,  nor  was  Selwyn  suddenly  in  knee-breeches 
and  buckles  and  satin  coat  and  brocaded  vest. 
Not  even  my  imagination  could  so  clothe  him. 
His  practicality  recalled  me. 

"I'll  go  over  and  find  out  what  sort  of  place  it 
252 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

is,  and  see  if  we  can  get  anything  to  ride  in.  Per- 
haps this  man  can  tell  me.  Wait  here."  He  put 
out  his  hand  as  if  to  prevent  my  speaking  first  to 
the  man.  I  didn't  intend  to  speak  to  him. 

The  man  could  tell  him  nothing.  He  lived  seven 
miles  back  and  had  come  to  the  station  to  meet  a 
friend  who  had  failed  to  appear.  There  were 
teams  in  the  neighborhood  that  might  be  gotten. 
Swan  Tavern  didn't  have  any.  Used  to,  but  most 
people  nowaday,  specially  drummers,  wanted  auto- 
mobiles, and  old  Colonel  Tavis,  who  owned  the 
place,  wouldn't  let  an  automobile  come  in  his  yard. 
Perhaps  Major  Bresee  might  let  him  have  his 
horse  and  buggy.  The  person  who  gave  the  in- 
formation changed  his  quid  of  tobacco  from  his 
left  to  his  right  cheek  and,  spitting  on  the  ground 
below  the  plank-loose  platform  on  which  we  were 
standing,  pointed  to  a  one-room  office-building 
down  the  street,  then  again  surveyed  us.  Two  or 
three  men  across  the  road  came  over,  and  two  or 
three  others  hanging  around  the  station  drew 
nearer  and  nodded  to  us,  while  both  of  the  boys, 
hands  in  their  pants  pockets,  stared  up  at  Selwyn 
as  if  something  new  had  indeed  come  to  town. 

From  each  of  the  group,  now  uncomfortably 

close  to  us,  the  impression  radiated  that  the  right 

of  explanation  was  theirs  as  to  why  we  should 

appear  in  Claxon  with  no  apparent  purpose  for 

17  253 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

so  appearing.  Seemingly  we  were  not  the  sort 
who  usually  applied  for  aid  to  the  minister  of  the 
little  town,  known  far  and  near  for  his  matrimonial 
activities,  and  just  what  we  wanted  was  a  matter 
concerning  which  they  were  entitled  to  enlighten- 
ment. They  said  nothing,  but  looked  much. 
Frowningly,  Selwyn  bit  his  lip.  Presently  he 
spoke. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  get  a  horse  and 
buggy  for  a  few  hours?"  He  looked  first  at  one 
man  and  then  another.  "We  have  to  wait  here 
for  friends  who  will  return  with  us  on  the  three- 
thirty  train,  and  we'd  like  to  see  something  of  the 
country  round  about  here  while  we're  waiting. 
Can  we  get  lunch  over  there?  And  what  time  do 
they  have  it?"  His  hand  pointed  to  Swan  Tavern. 

"  Don't  have  lunch.  Dinner's  at  twelve 
o'clock."  The  man  farthest  away  took  his  hands 
from  the  pockets  of  his  pants  and  put  them  in 
those  of  his  coat.  "I  reckon  you  can  get  Major 
Bresee's  horse  and  buggy  if  he  ain't  using  'em. 
The  horse  ain't  much,  but  it  moves  along.  Want 
me  to  see  if  I  can  get  him  for  you?" 

"I  would  be  very  much  obliged."  Selwyn 
turned  to  me.  "Shall  we  have  the  buggy  sent 
over  to  us  while  we  see  about  lunch?"  he  asked, 
but  not  waiting  for  an  answer  spoke  again  to  the 
man  whose  kindly  offices  he  had  accepted.  "If 

254 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

you  can  get  anything  we  can  ride  in  comfortably 
bring  it  over,  will  you?  And  bring  it  as  soon  as 
you  can." 

Lifting  his  hat,  he  turned  from  the  staring 
strangers  and  helped  me  down  the  three  rickety 
steps  that  led  to  the  road  across  which  we  had  to 
go  before  turning  in  to  the  tree-lined  lane  that  led 
to  the  quaint  old  tavern;  and  as  we  walked  we 
were  conscious  of  being  watched  with  speculation 
that  would  become  opinion  as  soon  as  we  were 
out  of  hearing. 

Picking  our  way  through  the  mud,  we  soon 
reached  the  house,  and  at  its  door  an  untidy  old 
gentleman,  with  the  grace  and  courtesy  of  the 
days  that  are  no  more,  greeted  us  as  a  gracious 
host  greets  warmly  welcomed  guests,  and  we  were 
led  to  a  roaring  fire  and  told  to  make  ourselves  at 
home. 

As  he  left  the  room  to  call  his  wife  I  touched 
Selwyn's  arm  and  pointed  to  an  open  book  on  an 
old  desk  near  the  window  at  which  travelers  were 
supposed  to  register.  "Ask  him  if  he  can't  have 
a  lunch  fixed  for  us  to  take  with  us.  Then  you 
won't  have  to  register  or  explain.  Tell  him  any- 
thing will  do,  and  please  to  hurry!" 

He  did  not  hurry.      Nobody  hurries  in  Claxon. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  before  the  buggy  was  at 
the  door,  a  basket  of  lunch  in  it,  and  good-bys  said; 

255 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

and  giving  a  last  look  around  the  big,  dusty,  sun- 
shiny room  with  cobwebs  on  its  walls  and  furniture 
in  it  that  would  have  made  a  collector  sick  with  de- 
sire, I  walked  out  on  the  porch,  and  with  me  went 
the  three  dogs  which  had  been  stretched  in  front 
of  the  big  log  fire.  Together  we  went  down 
the  steps. 

Tucking  a  robe  around  me,  the  old  gentleman 
nodded  to  Selwyn.  "Don't  let  your  wife  get  cold, 
suh,  and  don't  stay  out  too  long.  The  sun's  de- 
ceiving and  it  ain't  as  warm  as  it  looks."  Being 
deaf,  he  spoke  loudly.  "The  battlefields  are  to 
your  left  about  half  a  mile  from  the  creek  with  a 
water-oak  hanging  over  it,  and  nigh  about  two 
miles  from  here.  You  can't  miss  'em.  Over  yon- 
der"— he  pointed  to  the  top  of  a  modest  moun- 
tain— "is  where  we  had  a  signal  station  during 
the  war.  The  view  from  there  can't  be  beat  this 
side  of  heaven.  I  ain't  sure  the  battlements  of 
heaven  itself — 

But  our  horse  had  started  and  Selwyn,  look- 
ing at  me,  laughed.  "Battlefields  have  their 
interest,  but  not  to-day.  It's  nice,  isn't  it,  to 
be — just  by  ourselves  and  all  the  world  away? 
Are  you  all  right?  I  have  orders  to  keep  my 
wife  warm." 

"She's  very  warm.  Where  are  we  going?"  I 
turned  from  Selwyn 's  eyes. 

256 


"I  don't  know.  Don't  care.  It  is  enough  that 
we  are  to  be  together." 

"Wouldn't  you  feel  better  if  you  said  'I  told 
you  so'?  Any  one  would  want  to  say  it.  It  was 
a  pretty  long  trip  to  take  unnecessarily,  and  as  we 
haven't  been  of  service  we  needn't  have  come. 
I'm  sorry — " 

"I'm  not."  Selwyn,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
horse,  who  had  turned  into  the  road  leading  to  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  kept  his  eyes  still  on  me.  "I 
don't  deserve  what  has  come  of  our  venture,  but 
I  shall  enjoy  it  the  more,  perhaps,  because  of  un- 
deserving. It  is  just  'we  two'  to-day.  I  get  so 
mortally  tired  of  people — " 

"I  don't.  I  like  people.  Perhaps  if  I  only  knew 
one  sort  I  would  get  tired  of  them.  I  used  to 
think  my  people  were  those  I  was  born  among, 
but  I'm  beginning  to  glimpse  a  little  that  my 
family  is  much  larger  than  I  thought,  and  that 
all  people  are  my  people.  Still — "  I  laughed  and 
drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  pine-scented  air. 

"Still—  ?"    Selwyn  waited. 

1 '  It  is  nice  to  get  away  from  everybody  now  and 
then,  and  be  with  just  you.  I  mean — "  Certainly 
I  had  not  meant  to  say  what  I  had  said,  and, 
provoked  at  my  thoughtless  revealing,  at  the 
chance  it  would  give  Selwyn  to  say  what  I  did 
not  want  him  to  say,  I  stopped  abruptly,  then 

257 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

quickly  spoke  again.  "Why  don't  you  make  the 
horse  go  faster?  We'll  never  get  to  Signal  Hill  at 
this  rate.  He's  crawling." 

"What  difference  does  it  make  whether  we  get 
anywhere  or  not?  I  don't  want  to  get  anywhere. 
To  be  going  with  you  is  enough.  You  are  a  cruel 
person,  Danny,  or  you  would  not  make  me  go  so 
long  a  way  alone." 

"I  am  not  making  you  go  alone.  It  is  you  who 
are  making  me.  I  am  much  more  alone  than  you." 
Again  I  stopped  and  stared  ahead.  What  was  the 
matter  with  me  that  I  should  be  saying  things  I 
must  not  say?  In  the  silence  of  earth  and  air  I 
wondered  if  Selwyn  could  hear  the  quick,  thick 
beating  of  my  heart. 

On  the  winding  road  no  one  was  in  sight,  and 
from  our  elevation  a  view  of  the  tiny  town  below 
could  be  glimpsed  through  the  bare  branches  of 
the  trees  of  the  little  mountain  we  were  ascending ; 
and  about  us  was  no  sound  save  the  crunch  of  the 
buggy-wheels  on  the  gravel  road,  and  the  tread  of 
the  slow-moving  horse.  It  was  a  new  world  we 
were  in — a  kindly,  simple,  strifeless  world  of  peace 
and  plenty,  and  calm  and  content,  and  the  crowded 
quarters  close  to  Scarborough  Square,  with  their 
poignant  problems  of  sin  and  suffering,  of  scant 
beauty  and  weary  joy,  seemed  a  life  apart  and 
very  far  away.  And  the  world  of  the  Avenue,  the 

258 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

world  of  handsome  homes  and  deadening  luxuries, 
of  social  exactions  and  selfish  indulgence,  of  much 
waste  and  unused  power,  seemed  also  far  away, 
and  just  Selwyn  and  I  were  together  in  a  little 
world  of  our  own. 

"We  might  as  well  have  this  out,  Danny."  An 
arm  on  the  back  of  the  buggy,  Selwyn  looked  at 
me,  and  in  his  eyes  was  that  which  made  me  under- 
stand he  was  right.  We  might  as  well  have  it  out. 
"For  three  years  you  have  refused  to  marry  me, 
and  now  you  say  you  are  more  alone  than  I. 
We've  been  beating  the  air,  been  evading  some- 
thing ;  refusing  to  face  the  thing  that  is  keeping  us 
apart.  What  is  it?  You  know  my  love  for  you. 
But  yours  for  me —  You  have  never  told  me  that 
you  loved  me.  Look  at  me,  Danny."  He  turned 
my  face  toward  him.  "Tell  me.  Is  it  because  you 
do  not  love  me  that  you  will  not  marry  me?" 

"No."  A  bird  on  a  bough  ahead  of  us  piped  to 
another  across  the  road,  and  as  mate  to  mate  was 
answered.  "It  is  not  because  I  do  not  love  you — 
Selwyn.  I  do — love  you."  The  crushing  of  my 
hands  hurt,  but  he  said  nothing.  "I  shall  never 
marry  unless  I  marry  you — but  I  am  not  sure — 
we  should  be  happy." 

"Why  not?  Is  there  anything  that  man  could 
do  I  would  not  do  to  make  you  happy?  All  that  I 
am  or  may  be,  all  that  I  have  to  give — and  of  love  I 

259 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

have  much — is  for  you.  What  is  it,  then,  you  fear? 
Your  freedom  ?  I  should  never  interfere  with  that . ' ' 

I  shook  my  head.  "It  is  not  my  freedom. 
What  I  fear  is  our  lack  of  sympathy  with,  our 
lack  of  understanding  of,  certain  points  of  view. 
We  look  at  life  so  differently." 

"But  certainly  a  woman  doesn't  expect  a  man 
to  think  just  as  she  thinks,  to  feel  as  she  feels,  to 
see  as  she  sees,  nor  does  he  expect  her  to  see  and 
feel  and  think  his  way  in  all  things.  As  individ- 
uals they — ' 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't  expect,  wouldn't  want 
my  husband  to  feel  toward  all  things  as  I  feel.  I 
would  not  want  a  stupid  husband  with  no  mind 
of  his  own!  You  know  very  well  it  is  nothing  of 
that  sort.  If,  however,  we  cared  not  at  all  for 
the  same  sort  of  books;  if  we  saw  little  alike  in 
art  and  literature,  in  music  or  morals,  in  science 
or  religion;  if  the  same  interests  did  not  appeal; 
if  to  the  same  impulse  there  was  no  response — we 
could  hardly  hope  for  genuine  comradeship.  In 
most  of  those  things  we  are  together,  but  life  is  so 
much  bigger  than  things,  and  in  our  ideas  of  life 
and  what  to  do  with  it  we  are  pretty  far  apart." 

"Are  we?  Are  you  very  sure?  Are  you  per- 
fectly sure,  Danny,  that  we  are  so  very  far  apart?" 

Something  warm  and  sweet,  so  tempestuously 
sweet  that  it  terrified,  for  a  moment  surged,  and, 

260 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

half -blinded,  I  looked  up  at  him.  "Do  you 
mean — ?"  My  fingers  interlocked  with  his. 

"That  I  would  like  to  live  in  Scarborough 
Square?"  He  smiled  unsteadily  and  shook  his 
head.  "No,  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  live  there. 
I  wouldn't  fit  in.  I  am  just  myself.  You  are  a 
dozen  selves  in  one.  But  I  am  beginning  to  see 
dimly  what  you  see  clearly.  Concerning  my  self- 
ishness there  is  certainly  nothing  hazy.  The  walls 
around  my  house  have  been  pretty  high,  and  per- 
haps they  should  come  down.  You  have  much  to 
teach  me.  I  have  a  habit  of  questioning — " 

"So  have  I.  All  thinking  people  question.  But 
in  spite  of  my  questioning,  perhaps  because  of  it, 
I  know  now  that  my  life — must  count.  It  isn't 
mine  to  use  just  for  myself,  or  in  the  easiest  way. 
If  there's  anything  to  it,  I've  got  to  share  it.  Down 
in  Scarborough  Square  I've  been  seeing  myself  in 
the  old  life,  and  when  I  go  back  to  it  I  cannot — 
keep  silent  concerning  what  I  have  learned.  I 
think  perhaps  we've  failed — the  men  and  women  of 
our  world  even  more  discouragingly  than  the  men 
and  women  of  the  worlds  I've  learned  to  know.  As 
your  wife  you  might  not  care  to  have  me  say — " 

I  stopped,  silenced  by  the  viewwhich  lay  revealed 
before  us,  then  I  gave  a  little  cry.  Peak  after  peak 
of  tree-filled  mountains  raised  their  heads  to  a  sky 
of  brilliant  blue  whose  foam-clouds  curled  and 

261 


PEOPLE   LIKE    THAT 

tumbled  in  fantastic  shapes,  and  in  the  valley  below 
was  the  silence  and  peace  of  a  place  unpeopled.  I 
turned  to  Selwyn,  and  long  resistance  yielding  to 
that  for  which  there  was  no  words,  I  let  him  see  the 
fulness  of  surrender.  For  a  long  moment  we  did 
not  speak,  then  I  drew  away  from  his  arms.  "We 
must  get  out.  It  is  a  heavenly  vision.  I  want — 

Getting  down  from  the  high,  old-fashioned 
buggy,  Selwyn  held  his  arms  out  to  me,  lifted  me 
in  them  to  the  ground.  "I,  too,  want  here — my 
heavenly  vision."  It  was  difficult  to  hear  him. 
Drawing  my  face  to  his,  he  kissed  me  again. 
"You  have  told  me  that  you  loved  me.  You  are 
mine  and  I  am  going  to  marry  you." 

He  turned  his  head  and  listened,  in  his  face 
something  of  the  old  impatience.  The  soft  whir  of 
an  automobile  broke  the  silence  of  the  sun-filled, 
breeze-blown  air,  and  I  made  effort  to  draw  away 
from  Selwyn's  arms.  ' '  Some  one  is  coming, ' '  I  said, 
under  my  breath.  "  Shall  we  go  on  or  stay  here?" 

"Stay  here.  Why  not? '  Frowningly,  Selwyn 
for  a  moment  waited,  then,  with  his  hand  holding 
mine,  we  walked  nearer  the  edge  of  the  mountain's 
plateau  and  looked  at  the  ribbon-like  road  that 
wound  up  to  its  top.  The  noise  of  the  engine  was 
more  distinct  than  the  car,  but  gradually  the 
latter  could  be  seen  clearly,  and  presently  three 
figures  were  distinguished  in  it. 

262 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"They'll  have  to  pass  us.  There's  no  other 
way."  Words  not  utterable  were  smothered  un- 
der Selwyn's  breath.  "A  few  more  minutes  and 
they'll  be  going  down  the  mountain,  however,  and 
will  soon  be  out  of  sight.  Are  you  cold?  Do  you 
mind  staying  up  here  for  a  little  while — with  all 
the  world  away?" 

"No.  I  want  to  stay."  I  leaned  forward.  In 
the  machine,  now  near  enough  to  see  that  two 
people  were  in  its  back  seat  and  the  driver  alone 
in  front,  there  was  also  leaning  forward;  then 
hurried  movement,  then  the  man  behind  got  up 
and  waved  his  hat,  and  the  girl  beside  him  got  up 
also. 

Slowly  Selwyn  turned  to  me,  in  his  eyes  rebel- 
lious protest.  "It  is  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cressy,  and 
there's  no  way  of  getting  rid  of  them.  They've 
motored  over  instead  of  waiting  for  the  train. 
Have  they  no  sense,  no  understanding?" 

"And  they  think  they've  been  so  considerate  in 
hurrying  to  us!"  The  tone  of  my  voice  was  that 
of  Selwyn's.  "Is  there  nothing  we  can  do?" 

"Nothing — unless  we  tell  them  to  wait  here 
while  we  go  over  to  Shelby.  The  reward  of  virtue 
was  never  to  my  taste!  Our  one  day  together — ' 

He  turned  away,  but  quickly  I  followed  him;  in 
his  hand  slipped  mine.  "I'm  sorry,  Selwyn — but 
there  will  be  another  day — be  many  days." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MANY  undeserved  blessings  have  come  to  me 
in  life  and  have  made  me  temporarily  meek 
and  humble,  but  when  punishments  come  which 
are  unwarranted,  meekness  and  humility  (of  which 
I  have  never  possessed  a  sufficient  amount,  inas- 
much as  I  am  a  person  without  money)  disappear, 
and  I  am  not  a  lowly-minded  lady.  I  was  pun- 
ished for  my  part  in  helping  Tom  and  Made- 
leine get  married  by  action  of  Mrs.  Swink  that 
was  as  astounding  as  it  was  unexpected.  Mrs. 
Swink  is  a  wily  woman.  She  has  little  education 
and  large  understanding  of  human  nature.  She 
knows  when  she  is  beaten.  In  a  woman  such 
knowledge  is  unusual. 

The  day  after  our  return  from  Claxon  she  ap- 
peared in  my  sitting-room  in  Scarborough  Square 
and,  throwing  her  arms  around  me,  kissed  me 
three  times.  She  attempted  a  fourth  kiss,  which 
I  prevented,  and  followed  the  kisses  with  an  out- 
burst of  tears  that  was  proportionate  to  her  person 
in  volume  and  abundance.  Feeling  as  one  does 

264 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

who  is  overtaken  by  a  shower  when  the  sun  is 
shining,  I  made  effort  to  draw  away,  but  my 
head  was  again  pressed  on  her  broad  bosom,  and 
with  fresh  tears  I  was  thanked  for  my  kindness  in 
chaperoning  her  daughter  on  her  matrimonial 
adventure;  an  adventure  which  would  have  sub- 
jected her  to  much  criticism  had  I  not  been  along. 
Also  Mr.  Thome.  The  unexpectedness  of  these 
thanks  was  disconcerting  and,  with  an  expression 
that  was  hardly  appreciative  of  the  pose  she  was 
assuming,  I  finally  rescued  myself  from  her  arms 
and,  drawing  off,  looked  at  her  for  explanation. 
Mrs.  Swink  is  not  a  person  I  care  to  have 
kiss  me. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  do  not  know  the  anguish  of 
a  mother's  heart!  You  couldn't  know  it  unless 
you  were  a  mother,  and  when  you  are  one  I  hope 
your  heart  won't  be  wrung  as  mine  has  been  wrung ! 
But  poor,  dear  Mr.  Swink  always  said  bygones 
ought  to  be  bygones,  and  now  they're  married  I 
suppose  it's  a  bygone  and  I  ought  not  to  let  my 
heart  be  wrung;  but  it  is,  and  I've  been  thinking 
about  poor,  dear  Mr.  Swink  all  day."  She  took 
her  seat  and,  wiping  her  eyes  and  nose,  began  to 
cry  again.  "Oh,  my  dear,  you  don't  know  the 
anguish  of  a  mother's  heart!" 

"Would  you  like  a  fresh  handkerchief?"  I  asked. 
The  one  in  Mrs.  Swink' s  hand  was  too  wet  for 

265 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

further  use.  I  started  toward  my  bedroom  door, 
but  she  shook  her  head. 

"I've  got  two  or  three,  I  think.  I'm  so  easily 
affected  when  my  heart  is  wrung  that  I  have  to 
keep  a  good  many  on  hand.  But  I  had  to  come 
and  thank  you.  It  would  have  been  so  dreadful 
for  them  to  have  gone  off  alone.  It  makes  it  very 
different  to  have  had  you  and  Mr.  Thome  along. 
Yes,  indeed — a  mother's  heart — " 

What  was  she  up  to?  Fearing  that  my  face 
would  indicate  too  clearly  that  I  was  not  deceived 
by  her  change  of  tactics,  I  shielded  it  from  the  fire 
by  the  screen,  close  to  the  chair  in  which  I  sat, 
and  made  effort  to  wait  politely,  if  not  with  inward 
patience,  for  what  I  would  discover  if  I  only  gave 
her  time.  Something  had  happened  I  did  not 
understand.  I  had  forgotten  the  letter  Selwyn 
had  sent  her. 

"They  went  away  an  hour  ago  on  their  wedding- 
trip."  A  fresh  handkerchief  was  drawn  from  the 
heaving  bosom  for  the  fresh  tears  which  again 
flowed.  ' '  My  poor  head  is  all  in  a  whirl.  So  many 
things  had  to  be  done,  though  Madeleine  wouldn't 
take  but  one  trunk  and  no  maid,  though  I  told 
her  she  could  have  Freda,  and  there  are  so  many 
things  that  have  got  to  be  attended  to  before  they 
get  back  that  I  don't  know  where  to  begin,  and  I 
had  to  come  down  here  right  away  and  thank  you 

266 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

the  first  thing.  And  of  course  she  will  have  to  have 
a  trousseau,  for  her  poor,  dear  father  wouldn't  like 
it  if  she  didn't  have  one,  and  the  best  that  could 
be  bought.  He  was  very  particular,  her  father  was, 
and  I  know  he  would  thank  you,  too,  if  he  could. 
And  there  will  have  to  be  a  reception,  and  it's 
about  that,  and  a  few  other  things,  I  felt  I  must 
talk  to  you  this  morning,  being  you  are  respon- 
sible, in  a  way,  for  the  marriage — " 

1 '  I  am  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  are  responsible 
for  its  being  the  sort  of  marriage  it  was.  I  went 
with  them  because — 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  understand!  Tom  says  it  was 
splendid  in  you  and  I  had  to  come  and  thank  you. 
Everybody  will  take  it  so  differently  when  they 
know  you  and  Mr.  Thome  were  along.  I  think  it 
was  noble  in  Mr.  Thorne  when  his  poor  brother 
wanted  so  much  to  marry  Madeleine.  I  feel 
it  was  such  a  narrow  escape — her  not  marrying 
him.  I've  been  hearing  all  sorts  of  sad  things 
about  him  lately.  Real  sad.  I  was  deceived 
in  him." 

"Who  deceived  you?" 

I  might  as  well  not  have  asked  the  question. 
No  attention  was  paid  to  it. 

"He  was  such  a  dear  boy,  Harrie  was.  So 
handsome  and  his  family  so  well  known,  and  he 
was  so  in  love  with  Madeleine  that  I  was  deceived 

267 


PEOPLE   LIKE    THAT 

in  him.  Yes  indeed,  I  was  deceived.  A  woman  is 
so  helpless  where  men  are  concerned." 

"She  isn't  a  bit  helpless  unless  she  prefers  to  be. 
A  great  many  women  do.  Had  you  made  any 
inquiries  concerning  Harrie's  character?" 

"In  my  day  it  wasn't  expected  of  a  woman  to 
make  inquiries."  Mrs.  Swink's  voice  was  that  of 
righteous  reserve.  "It's  very  hard  on  a  mother  to 
ask  questions  about  character  and  things  like  that. 
I  knew  of  the  Thome  family  very  well,  and  of  the 
Thorne  house,  which  I  thought  Harrie  would  live 
in  until  he  and  Madeleine  could  build  a  moderner 
one,  and —  Oh  no,  my  child,  you  don't  know  the 
anguish  of  a  mother's  heart!  You  don't  know!" 
Tears  not  of  anguish,  but  of  blighted  ambition, 
caused  the  flow  of  words  to  cease  temporarily,  and 
light  came  to  me.  Selwyn's  letter  had  done  the 
work. 

Harrie  being  eliminated,  the  fat  old  hypocrite 
was  trimming  her  sails  with  hands  hardened  from 
long  experience.  Her  embraces  and  gratitude  were 
a  veer  in  a  new  direction.  In  a  measure  I  was  to 
be  held  to  account  for  the  present  situation;  in  a 
sense  to  be  social  sponsor  for  Mrs.  Thomas  Cressy. 
A  homeless  Harrie,  disapproved  of  by  family  and 
friends,  would  not  have  made  a  desirable  son-in- 
law,  and  I  had  been  seized  upon  as  the  most  avail- 
able opportunity  within  reach  to  bring  her  daugh- 

268 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

ter's  marriage  desirably  before  the  public.  Mrs. 
Swink  had  seemingly  little  understanding  of  the 
little  use  society  has  for  people  who  do  not  enter- 
tain. I  do  not  entertain. 

Nothing  was  due  her,  but  hoping  if  I  promised 
help  she  might  go  away,  I  suggested  the  possibility 
of  Kitty's  entertaining  Tom  and  Madeleine  on 
their  return  from  their  wedding-trip,  and  at  the 
suggestion  the  beady  little  eyes  brightened,  and 
immediately  I  was  deluged  with  details  of  the  re- 
ception she  had  determined  to  give  the  bride  and 
groom,  implored  for  help  in  making  out  the  list 
of  guests  to  be  invited,  and  begged  to  be  one  of 
the  receiving  party.  The  last  I  declined. 

When  at  last  she  was  safely  gone  I  locked  the 
door  and  sprayed  myself  with  a  preparation  that 
is  purifying.  I  was  dispirited.  There  are  times 
when  the  world  seems  a  weary  place  and  certain 
of  its  people  beyond  hope  or  pardon. 

Last  night  I  had  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Mundy.  She 
had  seen  the  girl  I  overheard  speaking  of  an  ill 
man  who  was  being  nursed  by  some  one  she  knew, 
and  this  girl  had  admitted  that  the  "some  one" 
was  Etta  Blake.  By  another  name  she  had  been 
living  in  Lillie  Pierce's  world.  For  the  past  two 
weeks,  however,  she  had  been  away  from  it. 
When  Mrs.  Mundy  told  me,  something  within 
18  269 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

gave  way,  and  my  head  went  down  in  my  arms, 
which  fell  upon  the  table,  and  I  held  them  back 
no  longer — the  aching  tears  which  came  at  last 
without  restraint.  "The  pity — oh,  the  pity  of  it!" 
was  all  that  I  could  say,  and  wisely  Mrs.  Mundy 
let  me  cry  it  out — the  pain  and  horror  which  were 
obsessing  me.  Hand  on  my  head,  she  smoothed 
my  hair  as  does  one's  mother  when  her  child  is 
greatly  troubled,  and  for  a  while  neither  of  us 
spoke. 

I  had  feared  for  some  time  what  I  knew  now 
was  true,  and  it  was  not  for  Etta  alone  that  pity 
possessed  me.  Somehow,  for  all  young  girlhood, 
for  the  weak  and  wayward,  the  bold  and  brazen, 
the  unprotected  and  helpless,  I  seemed  somehow 
responsible,  I  and  other  women  like  me,  who  were 
shielded  from  their  temptations  and  ignorant  of 
the  dangers  to  which  they  were  exposed;  and  Etta 
was  but  one  of  many  who  had  gone  wrong,  perhaps, 
because  I  had  not  done  right.  Something  was  so 
wrong  with  life  when  such  things  could  happen,  as 
through  all  ages  had  happened;  things  which  men 
said  were  impossible  to  prevent.  Perhaps  they  are, 
but  women  are  different  from  men  in  that  they 
attempt  the  impossible.  When  they  understand, 
this,  too,  must  be  attempted — 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Mundy  began  to  tell  me 
what  she  had  learned.  It  was  an  old  story.  The 

270 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

girl  who  told  her  of  Etta  was  a  friend  of  the  lat- 
ter's  and  had  been  a  waitress  in  the  same  res- 
taurant in  which  Etta  was  cashier.  It  was  at 
this  restaurant  that  Harrie  met  her. 

"She  was  crazy  to  think  he  meant  to  marry 
her,"  the  girl  had  told  Mrs.  Mundy,  "but  at  first 
she  did  think  it.  For  some  time  he  was  just  nice 
to  her,  taking  her  to  ride  in  his  automobile,  and 
out  to  places  where  he  was  not  apt  to  meet  any 
one  he  knew,  and  then — then — " 

"She  doesn't  blame  Harrie,  though.  That  is,  at 
first  she  didn't.  She  was  that  dead  in  love  with 
him  she  would  have  gone  with  him  anywhere,  but 
after  a  while,  when  she  found  out  the  sort  he  was, 
she — cursed  him.  It  was  about  the  child  they  had 
a  split." 

"Was  it  born  here?"  I  was  cold  and  moved 
closer  to  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Mundy  shook  her  head.  "He  sent  her  to 
a  hospital  out  of  town,  but  when  she  came  back 
with  the  child  he  told  her  she  would  have  to  send 
it  away  somewhere,  put  it  in  some  place,  or  he'd 
quit  her.  He  seemed  to  hate  the  sight  of  it.  It 
was  on  account  of  the  child  they  had  a  fuss.  Etta 
wouldn't  give  it  up.  She  can  be  a  little  fury  when 
she's  mad,  the  girl  said,  and  they  had  an  awful 
row  and  he  went  off  somewhere  and  stayed  four 
months.  She  tried  to  get  work,  but  each  time 

271 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

some  one  told  about  her  and  she  was  turned  off 
because — of  the  child.  At  one  place  one  of  the 
bosses  tried  to  take  some  liberty  with  her  and  she 
threw  an  ink-bottle  at  him  and  he  drove  her  away. 
She  knew  there  wasn't  any  straight  way  left  to 
her  after  that  unless  she  starved  or  went  in  a 
rescue  place.  She  tried  to  get  in  one  and  take  the 
baby  with  her,  but  it  was  full,  and  then,  too,  she 
kept  hoping  she  could  get  work.  Then  the  baby 
got  sick  and  needed  what  she  couldn't  give  it,  and 
after  a  while  she  gave  up.  She  got  a  woman  to 
look  after  the  child,  promised  to  pay  her  well,  and 
went  down  into  Lillie  Pierce's  world.  Since  the 
day  she  went  she  has  never  been  out  except  to  see 
the  baby,  until  two  weeks  ago,  when  she  moved 
into  a  decent  place  and  took  two  rooms.  Harrie 
had  come  back  to  her." 

"How  old  is  the  child?" 

"Ten  months.  She  never  intended  it  to  know 
anything  of  its  mother.  She  hoped  she  would  die 
before  it  was  old  enough  to  understand.  It's  a 
little  girl.  Etta  is  eighteen. " 

The  room  grew  still  and,  getting  up,  Mrs. 
Mundy  put  more  coal  on  the  fire,  made  blaze 
spring  from  it,  warm  and  red.  I  waited  for  her 
to  go  on. 

"It  seems  like  Mr.  Harrie  can't  stay  away  from 
her,  the  girl  says.  He  never  sees  the  child,  though. 

272 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

The  other  woman,  who's  married  and  has  children 
of  her  own,  still  keeps  it  for  her.  She's  named 
Banch."  Mrs.  Mundy  looked  up.  "I've  found 
where  the  Banches  live.  It's  only  two  squares 
from  where  Etta  is  now  living." 

"But  Harrie?"  I  turned  off  the  light  behind 
me. 

"He  is  with  Etta.  He  was  taken  ill  on  Christ- 
mas night.  Except  the  doctor,  no  one  knows  he 
is  with  her.  He  would  have  been  dead  by  now 
had  it  not  been  for  Etta,  the  doctor  says.  He  had 
pneumonia.  Mr.  Guard  and  Mr.  Crimm  have 
gone  to  see  him  to-night,  to  see  when  he  can  be 
moved  away." 

"And  Etta — what  will  become  of  her?" 

Mrs.  Mundy  looked  into  the  fire.  "What  can 
become  of  any  girl  like  that  but  to  go  back  to  the 
old  life?  She's  an  outcast  forever." 

' '  And  he —  '  I  got  up.  All  the  repression  of  past 
ages  was  breaking  into  revolt.  "He  will  go  home 
and  feed  on  the  leaven  of  Pharisees  and  hypocrites, 
and  later  he  will  marry  a  girl  of  his  world,  and  the 
world  that  will  give  him  welcome  will  keep  Etta 
in  her  hell.  I  wonder  sometimes  that  God  doesn't 
give  us  up — we  who  call  ourselves  clean  and  good ! 
We  are  a  lot  of  cowards,  most  of  us  women,  of 
'f raid-cats  and  cowards!" 

My  hands  made  gesture,  and,  going  to  the  win- 
273 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

dow,  I  looked  out,  ashamed  of  my  outburst. 
Beating  one's  head  against  the  walls  of  custom 
and  convention  accomplished  nothing.  All  sane 
people  agreed  concerning  the  injustice  of  one  per- 
son paying  the  price  of  the  sin  of  two  people;  all 
normal  ones  admitted  that  what  was  wicked  in  a 
woman  was  wicked  in  a  man,  but  agreement  and 
admission  were  terms  of  speech.  Translation  into 
action  would  have  meant  a  bigger  price  than  even 
sane  and  normal  and  righteous  people  were  willing 
to  pay.  Men  could  hardly  be  blamed,  but  women 
should  be,  for  the  continuance  of  old  points  of  view. 
Women  are  no  longer  ignorant  or  dependent,  and 
the  time  for  silence  and  acceptance  is  past.  Per- 
haps the  women  of  Lillie  Pierce's  world  are  not 
so  much  to  be  despaired  of  as  some  of  mine  and 
other  sheltered  worlds ;  the  soulless,  spineless,  self- 
ish ones  who  cannot  always  justly  draw  their 
skirts  aside,  and  yet  do  draw  them  with  eye- 
brows raised,  and  curling  lips,  and  gesture  that 
means  much.  I,  too,  have  been  a  coward.  I,  too, 
have  been  long  asleep.  But  there  were  other 
women  who  had  been  making  splendid  fight  while 
I  was  wasting  time,  and  at  thought  of  them  came 
courage,  and  under  my  breath  I  prayed  God  to 
make  it  grow. 

"You  must  bring  Etta  here."     I  turned  from 
the  window.     "I  want  to  talk  to  her,  to  see  if 

274 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

something  can't  be  done.  Surely  something  can 
be  done !  She  might  get  some  rooms  not  far  from 
here  and  take  the  child  to  live  with  her.  Mr. 
Thome  will  doubtless  make  his  brother  go 
away.  Can  you  see  her  to-morrow  and  bring 
her  here?" 

Mrs.  Mundy  got  up.  "You  are  dead  tired  and 
ought  to  go  to  bed.  Night  before  last  you  didn't 
sleep  two  hours,  and  I  heard  you  up  late  last  night. 
You  mustn't  take  things  too  hard,  Miss  Dan- 
dridge. ' '  She  put  her  warm  hands  on  my  cold  ones. 
"You're  young,  but  for  over  thirty  years  I  have 
been  looking  life  in  the  face,  and  I've  learned  a  lot 
that  nothing  but  time  can  teach.  One  of  the  things 
is  that  we  all  ain't  made  in  the  same  mold,  and 
our  minds  and  hearts  ain't  any  more  alike  than 
our  bodies.  Every  day  we  live  we  have  to  get  in 
a  new  supply  of  patience  and  politeness  to  keep 
from  hitting  out,  at  times,  at  folks  who  don't  see 
our  way.  Some  people  ain't  ever  going  to  look 
at  things  they  don't  want  to  see,  or  to  listen  to 
what  they  don't  want  to  hear,  but  there  ain't  as 
many  people  like  that  as  you  think.  There's  many 
a  woman  in  this  world  to-day  that  God  is  proud 
of;  in  the  Homes  and  places  what  they're  the  head 
of,  and  on  their  boards  and  things  they  are  learn- 
ing that  all  women  are  their  kin,  and  after  a  while 
they'll  make  other  women  understand.  I'll  see 

275 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

Etta  to-morrow,  and  if  she  will  come  I  will  bring 
her  to  see  you.  But  until  Mr.  Harrie  is  gone  she 
won't  come — won't  leave  him.  Sometimes  it 
seems  a  pity  he  didn't  die.  Go  to  bed,  Miss 
Dandridge!  you  are  all  tired  out." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

FOR  two  weeks  Etta  Blake  refused  to  come  to 
Mrs.  Mundy's,  refused  to  see  the  latter  when 
she  went  to  see  her,  to  see  me  when  I  went;  but 
yesterday  she  came  to  both  of  us.  Ten  days  ago 
Harrie  was  taken  to  Selwyn's  home  and  is  now 
practically  well.  Mr.  Guard  tells  me  he  is  going 
away;  going  West. 

I  have  seen  Selwyn  but  twice  since  he  learned 
where  Harrie  was  found,  and  then  not  alone.  Both 
times  some  one  was  here  and  he  stayed  but  a  short 
while.  He  has  bitten  dust  of  late  and  even  with 
me  he  is  incased  in  a  reserve  that  is  impenetrable. 
There  has  been  no  chance  to  mention  Harrie's 
name  had  he  wished  to  do  so.  I  do  not  know  that 
he  will  ever  mention  it  again.  Selwyn  is  the  sort 
of  person  who  rarely  speaks  of  painful  or  disgrace- 
ful things. 

I  was  in  my  sitting-room  when  Mrs.  Mundy 
came  up  with  Etta.  As  the  latter  stood  in  the 
doorway  prayer  sprang  in  my  heart  that  I  would 
not  shrink,  but  the  heritage  of  the  ages  was  upon 
me,  and  for  a  half -minute  I  could  only  think  of 

277 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

her  as  one  is  taught  to  think — as  a  depraved,  pol- 
luted creature,  hardly  human,  and  then  I  saw  she 
was  a  suffering,  sinful  child,  and  I  took  her  hands 
in  mine  and  led  her  to  the  fire. 

To  see  clearly,  see  without  confusion,  and  with 
no  blinding  of  sentimental  sympathy,  but  as 
woman  should  see  woman,  I  had  been  trying  to 
face  life  frankly  for  some  months  past;  yet  when 
I  saw  Etta  I  realized  I  had  gone  but  a  little  way 
on  the  long  and  lonely  road  awaiting  if  I  were 
to  do  my  part.  And  then  I  remembered  Harrie. 
He  had  gone  back  to  the  proudest,  haughtiest 
home  in  town;  and  Etta — where  could  Etta  go? 

Hatless,  and  in  a  shabby  dress,  with  her  short, 
dark,  curly  hair  parted  on  the  side,  she  looked 
even  younger  than  when  I  had  first  seen  her,  but 
about  her  twisting  mouth  were  lines  that  hard- 
ened it,  and  in  her  opalescent  eyes,  which  now 
shot  flame  and  fire  and  now  paled  with  weariness, 
I  saw  that  which  made  me  know  in  bitter  knowl- 
edge she  was  old  and  could  never  again  be  young. 
Youth  and  its  rights  for  her  were  gone  beyond 
returning. 

She  would  not  sit  down;  grew  rigid  when  I 
tried  to  make  her.  "You  want  to  see  me?"  She 
looked  from  me  to  Mrs.  Mundy  and  back  again  to 
me.  "What  do  you  want  to  see  me  about?  Why 
did  you  want  me  to  come  here?" 

278 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

"We  want  to  talk  to  you,  to  see  what  is  best  for 
you  to  do."  I  spoke  haltingly.  It  was  difficult  to 
speak  at  all  with  her  eyes  upon  me.  They  were 
strange  eyes  for  a  girl  of  eighteen. 

"Best  for  me  to  do?"  She  laughed  witheringly 
and  turned  from  the  fire,  her  hands  twisting  in 
nervous  movements.  "There  are  only  two  things 
ahead  of  me.  Death — or  worse.  Which  would 
you  advise  me — to  do?" 

Without  waiting  for  answer  the  slight  shoulders 
straightened  and  went  back.  Scorn,  hate,  bitter- 
ness were  in  her  unconscious  pose,  and  from  her 
eyes  came  fire.  "If  you  sent  for  me  to  preach 
you  can  quit  before  you  start.  There  ain't  any- 
thing you  can  do  for  me.  I'm  done  for.  What 
do  people  like  you  care  what  becomes  of  girls 
like  us?  Maybe  we  send  ourselves  to  hell,  but 
you  see  to  it  that  we  stay  there.  You're  good 
at  your  job  all  right.  I  hate  you  —  you  good 
women!  Hate  you!" 

I  heard  Mrs.  Mundy's  indrawn  breath,  saw  her 
quick  glance  of  shock  and  distress,  then  I  went 
over  to  Etta.  She  was  trembling  with  hot  emo- 
tion long  repressed,  and,  as  one  at  bay,  she  drew 
back,  reckless,  defiant,  and  breathing  unsteadily. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  hate  us.  I  am  sorry 
— so  sorry  for  you,  Etta." 

For  a  full  minute  she  stared  at  me  as  if  she 
279 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

had  not  heard  aright  and  the  dull  color  in  her  face 
deepened  into  crimson,  then  with  a  spring  she  was 
at  the  door,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms.  Lean- 
ing heavily  against  it,  she  made  convulsive  effort 
to  keep  back  sound. 

' '  Sorry — oh,  my  God !"  In  a  heap  she  crumpled 
on  the  floor,  her  face  still  hidden  in  her  hands.  "I 
did  not  know  —  in  all  the  world  —  anybody  was 
sorry.  You  can't  be  sorry — I'm  a — " 

I  motioned  Mrs.  Mundy  to  go  out.  "Leave  her 
with  me,"  I  said.  "Come  back  presently,  but 
leave  her  awhile  with  me." 

Going  over  to  the  window,  I  stood  beside  it 
until  the  choking  sobs  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  then,  turning  away,  I  drew  two  chairs  close 
to  the  fire  and  told  Etta  to  come  and  sit  by  me. 
For  a  while  neither  of  us  spoke,  and  when  at  last 
she  tried  to  speak  it  was  difficult  to  hear  her. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  let  go  like  that.  I  wouldn't 
have  done  it  if  you  hadn't  said — you  were  sorry. 
You've  no  cause  to  be  sorry  for  me.  I'm  not  worth 
it.  I  was  crazy — to  care  as  I  cared.  I  ought  to 
have  known  gentlemen  like  him  don't  marry  girls 
like  me,  but  I  didn't  have  the  strength  to — to 
make  him  leave  me,  or  to  go  away  myself.  And 
then  one  day  he  told  me  it  had  to  be  a  choice  be- 
tween him  and  the  baby.  He  seemed  to  hate  the 
sight  of  the  baby.  He  said  I  must  send  it  away." 

280 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

Swaying  slightly,  she  caught  herself  against  the 
side  of  the  table  close  to  her,  and  again  I  waited. 
"She's  a  delicate  little  thing,  and  I  couldn't  put 
her  in  a  place  where  I  didn't  know  how  they'd 
treat  her.  He  told  me  it  had  to  be  one  or  the 
other — and  I'd  rather  he'd  killed  me  than  made 
me  say  which  one.  But  I  couldn't  give  the  baby 
up.  She  needed  me." 

"And  then —        My  voice,  too,  was  low. 

"He  got  mad  and  went  away.  I  thought  I 
hated  him,  but  I  can't  hate  him.  I've  tried  and  I 
can't.  When  he  came  back  and  found  where  I 
was  living —  A  long,  low  shiver  came  from  the 
twisting  lips.  "About  five  weeks  ago  I  moved  to 
where  he  was  taken  sick.  And  now — now  he  has 
gone  home  again  and  I—  She  got  up  as  if  the 
torment  of  her  soul  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
sit  still,  and  again  she  faced  me.  "It  doesn't 
matter  what  becomes  of  me.  What  do  rich  people 
and  good  people  and  people  who  could  change 
things  care  about  us?  And  neither  do  they  care 
what  we  think  of  them,  and  specially  of  good 
women.  Do  you  suppose  we  think  you  really  be- 
lieve in  the  Christ  who  did  not  stone  us?  We 
don't.  We  laugh  at  most  Christians,  spit  at  them. 
We  know  you  don't  believe  in  Him  or  you'd  re- 
member what  He  said." 

She  turned  sharply.  Mrs.  Mundy  with  Kitty 
281 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

behind  her  was  at  the  door.  The  latter  hesitated, 
and,  seeing  it,  Etta  nodded  to  her.  "Come  in. 
I  won't  hurt  you.  You  need  not  be  afraid." 

Speaking  first  to  Etta,  Kitty  kissed  me,  and  I 
saw  she  had  come  up-stairs  because  she,  too,  was 
wondering  if  there  was  something  she  could  do. 
Kitty  is  no  longer  the  child  she  once  was.  She  is 
going,  some  day,  to  be  a  brave  and  big  and  splen- 
did woman.  At  the  window  she  sat  down,  and  as 
though  she  were  not  in  the  room  Etta  turned 
toward  me. 

"You  said  just  now  you  wanted  to  help.  "Want- 
ing won't  do  that!"  She  snapped  her  fingers. 
"You've  got  to  stop  wanting  and  will  to  do  some- 
thing. Men  laugh  at  the  laws  men  make,  but  we 
don't  blame  men  like  we  blame  women  who  let 
their  men  be  bad  and  then  smile  on  them,  marry 
them,  and  pretend  they  do  not  know.  They  do 
not  want  to  know.  If  you  made  men  pay  the 
price  you  make  us  pay,  the  world  would  be  a  safer 
place  to  live  in.  Men  don't  do  what  women  won't 
stand  for." 

Kitty  leaned  forward,  and  Etta,  with  twisting 
hands,  looked  at  her  and  then  at  Mrs.  Mundy  and 
then  at  me,  and  in  her  eyes  was  piteous  appeal. 
"There's  no  chance  for  me,  but  I've  got  a  little 
baby  girl.  What's  going  to  become  of  her?  In 
God's  name,  can't  you  do  something  to  make  good 

282 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

women  understand  ?  Make  them  know  the  awful- 
ness — awf  ulness — ' ' 

Again  the  room  grew  still  and  presently,  with 
dragging  steps,  Etta  turned  toward  the  door. 
Quickly  I  followed  her.  She  must  not  go.  I  had 
said  nothing,  gotten  nowhere,  and  there  was  much 
that  must  be  said  that  something  might  be  done. 
To  have  her  leave  without  some  plan  to  work 
toward  would  be  loss  of  time.  She  was  but  one 
of  thousands  of  bits  of  human  wreckage,  in  danger 
herself  and  of  danger  to  others,  and  somebody 
must  do  something  for  her.  I  put  my  hand  on  her 
shoulder  to  draw  her  back  and  as  I  did  so  the 
door,  half  ajar,  opened  more  widely.  Motionless, 
and  as  one  transfixed,  she  stared  at  it  wide-eyed, 
and  into  her  face  crept  the  pallor  of  death. 

Selwyn  and  Harrie  were  standing  in  the  door- 
way. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

O  TUMBLING  back  as  if  struck,  Harrie  leaned 
^  against  the  door-frame,  and  the  hat  in  his 
hand  dropped  to  the  floor.  Selwyn,  too,  for  a 
half -minute  drew  back,  then  he  came  inside  and 
spoke  to  Etta,  and  to  me,  and  to  Mrs.  Mundy,  and 
to  Kitty.  Pushing  a  chair  close  to  the  fire,  he  took 
Harrie  by  the  arm  and  led  him  to  it. 

' '  Sit  down, ' '  he  said,  quietly.  ' '  You'll  be  better 
in  a  minute." 

Harrie  had  given  Etta  no  sign  of  recognition, 
but  the  horror  in  his  once-handsome  face,  now 
white  and  drawn,  told  of  his  shock  at  finding  her 
with  me,  and  fear  and  recoil  weakened  him  to  the 
point  of  faintness.  In  his  effort  to  recover  him- 
self, to  resist  what  might  be  coming,  he  struggled 
as  one  for  breath,  but  from  him  came  no  word,  no 
sound. 

Infinite  pity  for  Selwyn  made  it  impossible  for 
me  to  speak  for  a  moment,  and  before  words  would 
come  Mrs.  Mundy  and  Kitty  had  gone  out  of  the 
room  and  Selwyn  had  turned  to  Etta. 

284 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

With  shoulders  again  drawn  back,  and  eyes  dark 
with  fear  and  defiance,  she  looked  at  him.  "Why 
have  you  come  here?"  she  asked.  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  You've  taken  him  home  and  left  me 
to  go  back  to  where  he  drove  me.  Isn't  that 
enough?  Why  have  you  brought  him  here?" 

"To  ask  Miss  Heath  to  say  what  he  must  do. 
That  is  why  I  have  come."  Pushing  the  trembling 
girl  in  a  chair  behind  Harrie's,  Selwyn  looked  up 
at  me.  "You  must  decide  what  is  to  be  done, 
Dandridge.  This  is  a  matter  beyond  a  man's 
judgment.  I  do  not  seem  able  to  think  clearly. 
You  must  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"I?  Oh  no!  It  is  not  for  me.  Surely  you 
cannot  mean  that  I  must  tell  you  — "  The 
blood  in  my  body  surged  thickly,  and  I  drew  back, 
appalled  that  such  decision  should  be  laid  upon 
me,  such  responsibility  be  mine.  "What  is  it  you 
want — of  me?" 

"To  tell  me — what  Harrie  must  do."  In  Sel- 
wyn's  face  was  the  whiteness  of  death,  but  his 
voice  was  quiet.  "I  did  not  know,  until  David 
Guard  told  me,  that  there  was  a  child,  and  that 
Harrie  was  its  father,  and  that  because  of  the 
child  Etta  would  not  go  away  as  I  had  tried  to 
make  her.  I  did  not  know  she  had  no  father  or 
brother  to  see  that,  as  far  as  possible,  her  wrong 
is  righted.  I  want  you  to  forget  that  Harrie  is  my 
19  285 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

brother  and  remember  the  girl,  and  tell  me — what 
he  must  do." 

From  the  chair  in  which  Harrie  sat  came  a  lurch- 
ing movement,  and  I  saw  his  body  bend  forward, 
saw  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  and  then  I  heard  a  sudden  sob,  a  soft, 
little  cry  that  stabbed,  and  Etta  was  on  the  floor 
beside  him,  crouching  at  his  feet,  holding  his  hands 
to  her  heart,  and  uttering,  broken,  foolish  words 
and  begging  him  to  speak  to  her,  to  tell  her  that 
he  would  marry  her — that  he  would  marry  her  and 
take  her  away. 

"Harrie — oh,  Harrie!"  Faintly  we  could  hear 
the  words  that  came  stumblingly.  "Could  we  be 
married,  Harrie,  and  go  away,  oh,  far  away,  where 
nobody  knows?  I  will  work  for  you — live  for  you 
— die  for  you,  if  need  be,  Harrie!  We  could  be 
happy.  I  would  try — oh,  I  would  try  so  hard  to 
make  you  happy,  and  the  baby  would  have  a 
name.  You  would  not  hate  her  if  we  were  married. 
She  was  never  to  know  she  had  a  mother,  she  was 
to  think  her  real  mother  was  dead  and  that  I  was 
just  some  one  who  loved  her.  But  if  we  were 
married  I  would  not  have  to  die  to  her.  Tell  me— 
oh,  tell  me,  Harrie,  that  we  can  be  married — and 
go  away — where  nobody  knows!" 

But  he  would  tell  her  nothing.  With  twitching 
shoulders  and  head  turned  from  her  he  tried  to 

286 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

draw  his  hands  from  those  which  held  his  in  pit- 
eous appeal,  and  presently  she  seemed  to  under- 
stand, and  into  her  face  came  a  ghastly,  shudder- 
ing smile,  and  slowly  she  got  up  and  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

As  she  stood  aside  Harrie,  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment, was  on  his  feet  and  at  the  door.  His  hand 
was  on  the  knob  and  he  tried  to  open  the  door,  but 
instantly  Selwyn  was  by  him,  and  with  hold  none 
too  gentle  he  was  thrust  back  into  the  room. 

"You  damned  coward!"  Selwyn's  voice  was 
low.  "She  is  the  mother  of  your  child,  and  you 
want  to  quit  her;  to  run,  rather  than  pay  your 
price!  By  God!  I'll  see  you  dead  before  you  do!" 

Again  the  room  grew  still.  The  ticking  of  the 
clock  and  the  beat  of  raindrops  on  the  window- 
panes  mingled  with  the  soft  purring  of  the  fire's 
flames,  and  each  waited,  we  knew  not  for  what; 
and  then  Etta  spoke. 

"But  you,  too,  would  have  to  pay — if  he  were 
made  to  pay — the  price."  She  looked  at  Selwyn. 
"It  is  not  fair  that  you  should  pay.  I  will  go 
away — somewhere.  It  does  not  matter  about  the 
baby  or  me.  Thank  you,  but —  Good-by.  I'm 
going — away." 

Before  I  could  reach  her,  hold  her  back,  she  was 
out  of  the  room  and  running  down  the  steps  and 
the  front  door  had  closed.  Mrs.  Mundy  looked 

287 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

up  as  I  leaned  over  the  banister.  "It  is  better  to 
leave  her  alone  to-day,"  she  said,  and  I  saw  that 
she  was  crying.  "We  can  see  her  to-morrow.  She 
had  better  be  by  herself  for  a  while." 

Back  in  the  room  Selwyn  and  I  looked  at  each 
other  with  white  and  troubled  faces.  We  had 
bungled  badly  and  nothing  had  been  done. 

"Come  to-morrow  night.  I  must  see  David 
Guard,  must  see  Etta  again,  before  I —  Come 
to-morrow  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  must  be  sure." 
I  turned  toward  Harrie,  but  he  had  gone  into  the 
hall.  Quickly  my  hands  went  out  to  Selwyn,  and 
for  a  long  moment  he  held  them  in  his,  then,  with- 
out speaking,  he  turned  and  left  me. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

T  KNOW  I  should  not  think  too  constantly  about 
•*•  it.  I  try  not  to,  but  I  cannot  shake  off  the 
shock,  the  horror  of  Etta's  death.  Selwyn  in- 
closed the  note  she  wrote  him  in  the  letter  he  sent 
me  just  before  leaving  with  Harrie  for  the  West, 
but  he  did  not  come  to  see  me  before  he  left. 

When  I  try  to  sleep  the  words  of  Etta's  note  pass 
before  me  like  frightened  children,  crying — crying, 
and  then  again  these  children  sing  a  dreary  chant, 
and  still  again  the  chant  becomes  a  chorus  which 
repeats  itself  until  I  am  unnerved;  and  they  seem 
to  be  calling  me,  these  little  children,  and  begging 
me  to  help  make  clean  and  safe  the  paths  that 
they  must  tread.  I  am  just  one  woman.  What 
can  I  do? 

I  knew  Etta  was  dead  before  Selwyn  received 
her  note.  Mrs.  Banch,  the  woman  who  kept  the 
child  for  her,  came  running  to  Mrs.  Mundy  the 
day  after  Etta  had  been  to  see  me,  and  incohe- 
rently, sobbingly,  with  hands  twisting  under  her 
apron,  she  told  us  of  finding  Etta,  with  the  baby  in 

289 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

her  arms,  lying  on  her  bed,  as  she  thought,  asleep. 
But  she  was  not  asleep.  She  was  dead. 

"She  had  done  it  as  deliberate  as  getting  ready 
to  go  on  a  long  journey,"  the  woman  had  sobbed. 
"Everything  was  fixed  and  in  its  place,  and  after 
bathing  and  dressing  the  baby  in  a  clean  gown,  she 
wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper  that  all  of  its  clothes 
were  for  my  little  girl,  and  that  she  wouldn't  do 
what  she  was  doing  if  there  was  any  other  way." 

With  a  fresh  outburst  of  tears,  the  woman 
handed  me  a  half -sheet  of  note-paper.  "Bury  us 
as  we  are,"  it  read.  "I  am  taking  the  baby  with 
me.— Etta." 

"We  will  come  with  you."  Mrs.  Mundy,  who 
had  gotten  out  her  hat  and  coat  to  go  to  see  Etta 
before  Mrs.  Banch  came  in,  hurriedly  put  them  on, 
while  I  went  for  mine,  and  together  we  followed 
the  woman  to  the  small  and  shabby  house  in  the 
upper  part  of  which  Etta  had  been  living  for  some 
weeks  past;  the  lower  part  being  occupied  by  an 
old  shoemaker  and  his  wife  who  had  been  kind  to 
her;  and  as  we  entered  the  room  where  the  little 
mother  and  her  baby  lay  I  did  not  try  to  keep 
them  back — the  tears  that  were  too  late. 

"Last  night  I  was  standing  in  the  door  when 
she  came  by  with  a  letter  in  her  hand."  As  Mrs. 
Banch  talked,  she  was  still  quivering  from  the 
shock  of  her  discovery,  and  her  words  came 

290 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

brokenly.  "On  her  way  back  from  mailing  it  I 
asked  her  to  come  in  and  set  with  me,  but  she 
wouldn't  do  it;  she  said  she  was  going  to  take  the 
baby  with  her  to  spend  the  night,  as  she  didn't 
want  to  be  by  herself;  and,  going  up-stairs,  she 
wrapped  her  up  good  and  took  her  away  with  her. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  I  felt  worried  all  last  night, 
and  this  morning  I  couldn't  get  down  to  nothing 
'til  I  ran  around  to  see  how  she  was  and  how  the 
baby  was,  and  when  I  went  up  in  her  room — 
The  woman's  work-worn  hands  were  pressed  to 
her  breast.  "God — this  world  is  a  hard  place  for 
girls  who  sin !  It  don't  seem  to  matter  about  men, 
but  women — "  Presently  she  raised  her  head 
and  looked  at  us.  "I  never  seen  a  human  being 
what  had  her  spirit  for  enduring.  She  paid  her 
price  without  whining,  but  something  must  have 
happened  what  she  couldn't  stand.  She  had  a 
heart  if  she  was — if  she  was — " 

Two  days  later,  as  quietly  as  her  life  had  ended, 
Etta's  body,  with  her  baby  on  its  breast,  was  put 
into  the  ground,  and  mingled  with  David  Guard's 
voice  as  he  read  the  service  for  the  dead  was  the 
far-off  murmur  of  city  noises,  the  soft  rise  and  fall 
of  city  sounds.  With  Mrs.  Mundy  and  Mrs. 
Banch,  the  old  shoemaker  and  his  wife,  I  stood  at 
the  open  grave  and  watched  the  earth  piled  into 

291 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

a  mound  that  marked  a  resting-place  at  last  for  a 
broken  body  and  a  soul  no  one  had  tried  to  reach 
that  it  might  save,  but  I  did  not  hear  the  beating 
of  the  clods  of  clay,  nor  the  twittering  of  the  birds 
;  in  the  trees,  nor  the  wind  in  their  tops.  I  heard 
instead  Etta's  cry  to  Kitty  and  to  me :  "In  God's 
name,  can't  somebody  do  something  to  make  good 
women  understand!" 

It  is  these  words  that  beat  into  my  brain  at 
night;  these  and  the  words  I  did  not  speak  in  time 
and  which,  on  the  next  day,  were  too  late.  The 
note  she  sent  Selwyn  also  keeps  me  awake. 

"I  am  going,"  she  wrote,  "so  the  thought  of  me 
will  not  make  you  afraid.  You  tried  to  help  me, 
but  there  isn't  any  help  for  girls  like  me.  I  am 
taking  the  baby  with  me.  I  want  to  be  sure  she 
will  be  safe.  It  would  be  too  hard  for  her,  the 
fight  she'd  have  to  make.  I  can't  leave  her  here 
alone.  ETTA." 

Last  night  David  Guard  came  in  for  a  few  min- 
utes. Leaning  back  in  a  big  chair,  he  half  closed 
his  eyes  and  in  silence  watched  the  flames  of  the 
fire,  and,  seeing  he  was  far  away  in  thought,  I  went 
on  with  the  writing  of  the  letter  I  had  put  aside 
when  he  came  in.  I  always  know  when  he  is  tired 
and  worn,  and  I  have  learned  to  say  nothing,  to 

292 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

be  as  silent  as  he  when  I  see  that  the  day's  work 
has  so  wearied  him  he  does  not  wish  to  talk.  At 
other  times  we  talk  much — talk  of  life  and  its  pos- 
sibilities, of  old  cults  and  new  philosophies,  of 
books  and  places;  of  the  endless  struggles  of  men 
like  himself  to  be  intellectually  honest  and  spirit- 
ually free.  But  oftenest  we  speak  of  the  people 
around  us,  the  people  on  whom  the  injustices  of  a 
selfish  social  system  fall  most  heavily;  and  among 
them,  sharing  their  hardships,  understanding  their 
burdens,  recognizing  their  limitations  and  weak- 
nesses, leading  and  directing  them,  he  has  found 
life  in  losing  it,  and  it  now  has  meaning  for  him 
that  is  bigger  and  finer  than  the  best  that  earth 
can  give. 

Presently  he  stirred,  drew  a  long  breath  as  one 
awaking,  but  when  he  spoke  he  did  not  turn 
toward  me. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Thorne  the  night  before  he  left 
with  Harrie  for  his  friend's  ranch  in  Arizona.  He 
is  going  to  give  him  another  chance,  and  it's  pretty 
big  of  him  to  do  it,  but  I  doubt  if  anything  will 
come  of  it.  Harrie  belongs  to  a  type  of  humanity 
beyond  awakening  to  a  realization  of  moral  de- 
generacy; a  type  that  believes  so  confidently  in 
the  divine  right  of  class  privilege  that  it  believes 
little  else.  Harrie's  failure  to  appreciate  the  hid- 
eousness  of  certain  recent  experiences  has  made 

293 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

them  all  the  more  keenly  felt  by  his  brother.  I 
have  rarely  seen  a  man  suffer  as  the  latter  has  suf- 
fered in  the  past  few  days,  but  unless  I  am  mis- 
taken—" 

The  pen  in  my  hand  dropped  upon  the  desk,  and 
for  a  while  I  did  not  speak.  Then  I  got  up  and 
went  toward  David  Guard,  who  had  also  risen. 
"You  mean — "  The  words  died  in  my  throat. 

"That  he  is  beginning  to  understand  why  you 
came  to  Scarborough  Square;  to  grasp  the  neces- 
sity of  human  contact  for  human  interpretation. 
He,  too,  is  seeing  himself,  his  life,  his  world,  from 
the  viewpoint  of  Scarborough  Square,  and  what 
he  sees  gives  neither  peace  nor  pride  nor  satisfac- 
tion. He  will  never  see  so  clearly  as  you,  perhaps, 
but  certain  cynicisms,  certain  intolerances,  cer- 
tain indifferences  and  endurances  will  yield  to 
keener  perception  of  the  necessity  for  new  pur- 
poses in  life."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "He  needs 
you  very  much.  I've  got  to  go.  Good-by." 

For  a  long  time  I  sat  by  the  fire  and  watched  it 
die.  Was  David  Guard  right,  or  had  it  been  in 
vain,  the  venture  that  had  brought  me  to  Scar- 
borough Square?  I  had  told  Selwyn  I  had  come 
that  I  might  see  from  its  vantage-ground  the  sort 
of  person  I  was  and  what  I  was  doing  with  life; 
but  it  was  also  in  the  secret  hope  that  he,  too, 
might  see  the  kindred  of  all  men  to  men,  the  need 

294 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

of  each  for  each,  that  I  had  come.  If  together  we 
could  stand  between  those  of  high  and  low  degree, 
between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  strong  and  the 
weak,  with  hands  outstretched  to  both,  and  so 
standing  bring  about,  perhaps,  a  better  under- 
standing of  each  other,  then  my  coming  would 
have  been  worth  while.  But  would  we  ever  so 
stand?  All  that  I  had  hoped  for  seemed  as  dead 
as  the  ashes  on  the  hearth.  I  had  brought  him 
pain  and  humiliation,  drawn  back,  without  inten- 
tion, curtains  that  hid  ugly,  cruel  things,  and  for 
him  Scarborough  Square  would  mean  forever  bit- 
ter memories  of  bitter  revealing.  I  had  failed. 
I  had  tried,  and  I  had  failed,  and  I  could  hold  out 
no  longer. 

Getting  up,  I  pressed  my  hands  to  my  heart  to 
still  triumphant  throbbing.  It  had  won.  I  did 
not  hate  his  house.  I  hated  its  walls.  But  I  could 
no  longer  live  without  him.  I  would  many  him 
when  he  came  back. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MY  hands  in  his,  Selwyn  looked  long  at  me, 
then  again  drew  me  to  him,  again  raised  my 
face  to  his.  "A  thousand  times  I've  asked.  A 
thousand  times  could  give  myself  no  answer.  Why 
did  you  wire  me  to  come  back,  Danny?" 

"You  were  staying  too  long." 

He  smiled.  "No;  it  was  not  that.  There  was 
something  else.  What  was  it?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "What  was  it?  Why  did 
you  send  for  me?" 

"To — tell  you  I  would  marry  you  whenever  you 
wish  me  to — " 

His  face  whitened  and  the  grip  of  his  hands 
hurt.  Presently  he  spoke  again.  "But  there  was 
something  else.  You  had  other  reasons.  Surely 
between  us  there  is  to  be  complete  and  perfect 
understanding.  What  is  it,  Danny?" 

I  drew  away  and  motioned  him  to  sit  beside  me 
on  the  sofa.  In  the  firelit  room  faint  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  with  which  he  kept  it  filled  crept  to  us, 
and  around  it  we  both  glanced  as  if  its  spirit  were 

296 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

not  intangible ;  and  at  unspoken  thought  his  hands 
again  held  mine. 

"You  sent  for  me — "     He  leaned  toward  me. 

"Because  I  heard — an  unbelievable  thing.  Da- 
vid Guard  tells  me — you  have  sold — your  house. 
I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Tell  me  it  is  not  true, 
Selwyn!  Surely  it  is  not  true!" 

"It  is  true." 

With  a  little  cry  my  fingers  interlaced  with  his 
and  words  died  on  my  lips.  As  quietly  as  if  no 
fight  had  been  fought,  no  sleepless  nights  endured, 
no  surrender  made  at  cost  of  pride  beyond  com- 
puting, he  answered  me,  but  in  his  face  was  that 
which  made  me  turn  my  face  away,  and  in  silence 
I  clung  to  him.  The  room  grew  still,  so  still  we 
could  hear  each  other's  breathing,  quick  and  un- 
steady, then  again  I  looked  up  at  him. 

"But  why,  Selwyn?  Why  did  you  sell  your 
house?" 

"You  would  not  be  happy  in  it.  You  do  not 
care  for  it.  I  am  ready  now  to  live — wherever 
you  wish." 

"But  I  am  ready,  too,  to  live — where  you  wish. 
Don't  you  see  it  does  not  matter  where  one  lives? 
What  matters  is  one  must  be  very  sure — one  can- 
not live  apart,  and  that  one's  spirit  must  have 
chance.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me,  Selwyn?  Why 
did  you  do  this  without  letting  me  know?" 

297 


PEOPLE    LIKE   THAT 

"You  would  have  told  me  not  to  do  it;  would 
not  have  consented.  There  was  no  other  way  to 
be  sure  that  I  was  willing — to  do  my  part.  I 
know  now  there  is  something  to  be  done,  know  I 
must  no  longer  live  behind  high  walls." 

"But  the  house  will  be  needed  when  the  walls 
come  down!  It  is  not  where  one  lives,  but  how, 
that  counts.  You  must  not  sell  your  house." 

"But  I  have  sold  it — "  Something  of  the  old 
impatience  was  in  his  voice,  then  the  frown  faded. 
"There  was  no  other  way — to  be  sure.  Were  the 
walls  down —  I  did  not  think,  perhaps,  that 
walls  could  be  anywhere.  It  is  too  late  now.  The 
house  was  sold  while  I  was  away.  The  papers 
will  be  signed  next  week." 

Again  the  room  grew  still  and  I  made  effort  to 
think  quickly,  definitely.  I  was  not  willing  that 
Selwyn  should  make  such  sacrifice  for  me.  I 
would  let  the  sunshine  into  his  house  and  love  it 
when  its  cold  aloofness  became  friendly  warmth, 
and  together  we  could  learn  in  it  what  life  would 
teach.  The  house  must  not  be  sold,  but  how  pre- 
vent ?  I  bent  my  head  down  to  the  violets  on  my 
breast,  drew  in  deep  breath.  Suddenly  a  thought 
came  to  me.  I  looked  up. 

"When  a  man  sells  a  piece  of  property  doesn't 
his  wife  have  to  sign  the  papers  as  well  as  himself?" 

"She  does."    Selwyn  smiled. 
298 


PEOPLE    LIKE    THAT 

"And  the  sale  couldn't  be  consummated  unless 
she  signed  them?" 

"  It  could  not.  You  know  the  law."  Again 
he  smiled.  "  Not  having  a  wife — " 

"But  you  will  have — before  those  papers  are 
ready  to  be  signed.  I  am  not  going  to  sign  them. 
I  mean —  Don't  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  I  do."  Selwyn's  voice  was 
grave,  uncertain.  "Is  it  that — " 

"We  will  have  to  be  married  next  week  and  then 
you  can  tell  the  party  who  wants  your  house  that 
your  wife  does  not  wish  it  to  be  sold.  Put  the 
olame  on  me.  It  would  be  disappointing  to  many 
people  if  there  was  not  something,  even  about  my 
marriage,  for  which  they  could  criticize  me.  You 
mustn't  sell  the  house,  Selwyn.  That  is  why  I 
wired  you  to  come.  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  too 
late — if  I  waited." 

Still  doubting,  Selwyn  looked  at  me  as  if  it 
could  not  be  true,  that  which  I  was  saying,  and 
again  the  room  grew  still.  Then — 

Presently,  and  after  a  long  and  understanding 
while,  he  broke  its  stillness,  though  when  he  spoke 
it  was  difficult  to  hear  him.  "We  will  always  keep 
them,  these  rooms  in  Scarborough  Square.  We 
will  need  them  as  well  as  the  house  without  its 
walls.  And  I—  You  must  have  patience  with 
me,  Danny.  Are  you  sure  you  have  enough?" 

299 


PEOPLE   LIKE   THAT 

"I  have  not  quite  as  much  as  you  will  need  for 
me.  And  yet — when  there  is  love  enough  there 
is  enough  of  all  things  else.  We  have  waited  long 
to  be  sure.  Surely — oh,  surely  now — " 

"We  know?"  He  bent  lower.  "Yes,  I  think 
now — we  know." 


THE   END 


A     000127960     3 


